


Sacorum

by dweeblet



Series: Incrementum [1]
Category: Gravity Falls, Transcendence AU - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Transcendence, Angst, Anxiety, Body Horror, Dark!Dipper, Demon Deals, Demon Summoning, Demonic Possession, Denial, Dipper Pines Has Panic Attacks, Gen, High School, Mabel Pines' Sweaters, Mental Breakdown, Moral Dilemmas, My First Fanfic, Not Canon Compliant, Omniscience, Parent-Child Relationship, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Hatred, Sibling Love, Slow To Update, Trust Issues, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, demon!dipper
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2017-03-28
Packaged: 2018-05-07 20:20:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 17
Words: 35,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5469668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dweeblet/pseuds/dweeblet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[INDEFINITE HIATUS]<br/>Bill has been destroyed, the Transcendence has made fantasy real across the globe, and the Pines twins are finally returning home to Piedmont. Widespread existence of magic and myth has taken its toll on the world, but the worst is over and a bright future is ahead.<br/>Things are finally looking up. Normalcy finally seems to be settling back in, that is, until Dipper falls violently ill. </p><p>Foul play is suspected. Things only go downhill from there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cavities

It took a little less than a year for enough stability to return to the daily goings-ons of people's lives for Dipper and Mabel to return to school in Piedmont. 

 

Society had finally stopped reeling from the results of the Transcendence, and while there was plenty still to be discovered, normalcy had settled in quickly, albeit uneasily. Tolerance was not the same as acceptance, after all.

 

Dipper and Mabel had returned to their small house in Piedmont, California a few days more than two weeks after the Transcendence. The world was still in shock after it had first happened, and traffic had been absolutely  _ brutal _ , to put it lightly.

 

Their parents, Mark and Anna Pines, were taking things surprisingly well. Sort of.

 

Dipper had had to explain the many scars that peppered his extremities from when the demon Bill Cipher had possessed him, not to mention those that remained from those many times he and Mabel had tumbled and fell and rolled and fought with any variety of the supernatural during their time with their uncle in Oregon. 

 

_ Mabel has it easy, _ Dipper thought indignantly. Sure, he had always been antisocial and bookish, intrigued (perhaps a bit too much) by the promise of that which was morbid and strange, but his parents seemed to think it was a much bigger deal than it actually was.

 

That was to say, he'd taken a lot of abuse from his peers and seen many therapists in his time. The fresh scars did not help his situation much.

 

Needless to say, his parents  _ did _ have to believe him. 

 

Now the world was one in which centaurs trotted down the street and tipped their hats good day, and werewolves loped to monthly appointments for moon-sickness. Pixies filled the forest with a cacophony of voices and whispers of papery wings, and teacup manticores (de-clawed and venom sacs removed, of course) were auctioned off as rare pets for the wealthy.

 

Supernatural enlightenment and magic-ed courses had already been integrated into mandatory curriculums, for crying out loud. Some institutes even offered majors in sigils and spellcasting for those gifted with the ability, and others taught summoning and demonology.

 

So grudgingly, Mark and Anna nodded and accepted Dipper's words, Mabel hovering by his side with an encouraging grin.

 

As things were, much to the twins' chagrin, having saved the world and possibly the universe from a mad triangular dream demon did not excuse them from undergoing puberty and attending school with the rest of their Piedmont classmates.

 

In the short span of time since the Transcendence and return to daily life, Dipper had sprouted up several inches, and built upon a fair amount of lean, wiry muscle that had been developing slowly since the beginning of the summer. He and his long, skinny arms and legs- all knees and elbows- had all the grace of a newborn giraffe as he found himself bumping his head into things and tripping over his own feet- the newest object of Mabel’s teasing. 

 

Not to mention, that is, as Dipper’s admittedly impressive growth spurts and squaring jawline started to define themselves, stripping away outer signs of childhood, Mabel was beginning to do the same, albeit in different ways. Spitefully, she proceeded to develop rather generous womanly curves and a bust that Dipper had no choice but to see right down from his height, no matter what he did. Mabel assured him that in a few years, he wouldn't be embarrassed at all, but would revel in the views he could get from future girlfriends.

 

This wasn't encouraging in the slightest.

 

"It's so weird," Dipper mused as he and his sister walked to school, crossing Piedmont Park's dying grass and moving skittishly across the busy intersection and down the sidewalk. 

 

Mabel nodded, "Yeah, bro-bro. It’s almost like nothing's changed, at least not for us. You could say  _ everything _ changed for everybody else.!" She agreed, unfaltering smile only growing as she balanced on the curb and they approached the first street before Magnolia Avenue diverged into Hillside. "I wonder if anybody knows how we were mixed up in the Transcendence? Think we'll be famous?"

A harsh laugh escaped him, one unexpected enough for Mabel to blink at him quizzically until he shrugged and rolled his eyes playfully, enjoying pleasant silence with each other’s company for the remainder of the walk.

 

To that end, Dipper and Mabel found themselves swarmed by their old acquaintances as they entered the school building.

 

"You were in Gravity Falls, Oregon for the summer, right?" asked one boy with frizzy orange hair, whom Dipper was able to identify as Charles B. Harris, a steadfast member of Piedmont High's dwindling chess club. "The Transcendence happened there, right?"

 

Dipper nodded and as Mabel sputtered off on exciting stories of what had transpired to the more theatrically inclined of the growing crowd, Charles pulled him aside and whispered a question, as though the words would burn his throat if he spoke too loudly.

 

"Is it true," he breathed, pudgy face a little too close to Dipper's to be comfortable, "that there was like, an actual demon there, right?"

 

Something overcame him and Dipper gave a knowing grin. "That's right!" A certain part of him swelled at the chance to discuss all of his theories and findings- his parents wouldn't tolerate it and Mabel just didn't have the attention span. However he found that small part of him withered quickly as he remembered why he’d left the chess club.

"Wow!" Charlie Harris looked like he'd burst as he trailed after Dipper to their homerooms. He blubbered like an idiot as they gathered their books, "I can't believe you even got out alive! The demonology courses haven't been goin' on for too long but man, it's scary stuff from what I hear."

 

An unbidden smirk tugged at Dipper's lips. "Oh  _ really _ ?" He didn't quite have the heart to break it to the kid that 'scary stuff' was the understatement of the millennium. He had been glad to see someone who shared his interest, but  _ Lord _ , that kid didn't stop talking. He couldn't help but be relieved as class came along, sending him and Charles their separate ways as he made for language arts and Harris for precalculus.

 

Classes were incredibly dull. Dipper found himself longing for something unfortunate to happen- not because he wanted something  _ bad _ to happen, per se, but because something squirmed in his innards for action. He longed for something compelling, intriguing, consuming. Something like the mystery of Gravity Falls that had swallowed his summer.

 

Something more interesting than the stale old news that was participial phrases, at least.

 

Luckily, Dipper found his silent prayers answered that afternoon when he was shunted along in the flow of students to his first ever demonology class. A spark lit up in his chest as he learned that it was the one class that day he would share with Mabel, and something told him things were about to get interesting.

 

Their demonology professor was a woman called Teresa R. Neri, a plump woman in her mid-thirties who seemed as though she'd be more suited to raising bunnies than researching demons, of all things. Her features were soft, betraying her friendliness, she dressed in mostly pastels and bright colored dresses and she insisted that all her students called her Miss Terry.

 

Of course, Mabel absolutely loved her.

 

"Alright class," she said, leading the mass of kids into the large room that appeared to be a repurposed auditorium. Various religious objects could be seen, some on the floor, on the desks, even adhered to the ceiling. The harsh scent of burning sage filled the room, making Dipper's eyes water and stomach churn. "This is where the magic happens- literally!" A few kids giggled along with her quip but most, Dipper included, remained unimpressed.

 

"Now, as exciting as it is," she began, tone suggesting an oncoming lecture, "we can't all start summoning demons right off the bat. Some people have more talent than others in that area, but no matter how skilled you are, if you don't know how the critters operate, there's no way you can control 'em when you need to."

 

She waved a student over, hoisting a bundle of textbooks in both arms. "Pass these out to everyone, won't you, Tony?"

 

The kid grunted his resignation to his fate, lugging a stack of thick books and dropping one on the desk in front of each student.

 

"Thanks kiddo!" Miss Terry said, beaming. "Now, I'd like you all to turn to page twenty-three. We'll have to start with the very basics- why would you want to summon a demon? Anyone know?"

 

A few hands poked tentatively upwards.

"You, Lula?" Said Miss Terry, waving to a girl whose head was full of braids.

 

"If you have like, a really big problem, that like, you can't fix any other way?"

 

Miss Terry nodded, continuing. "That's one reason, and people can summon demons for lots of reasons. Some people want power, some people want to heal sick people, and some people want other people to be gotten rid of. Here in this class, however, there will be  _ absolutely _ no unsupervised summoning,  _ period _ ." Her gaze turned hard and she looked each student over. "Demons are unpredictable, and you can never have complete power over one, so it's very important to be cautious. In this class, I won't be teaching you to summon. No, you'll be learning what exactly demons are, and how to defend yourself if you find yourself meeting one."

 

As such, she began an admittedly intriguing lecture on identifying and nullifying demonic sigils that could be used to summon or boost a demon’s power. She then went on to identifying the demons themselves, having the class flip through the book of demons known so far.

 

This part of the discussion remained intriguing and uneventful until it was discovered that there was a page for Bill. Dipper choked.

 

Miss Terry knew something was wrong almost before he’d even made a sound, eyes flitting across the room and resting on Dipper, who'd pulled his trucker cap down over his eyes, shuddering. "Are you alright, hon? Do you need to go get some water?"

 

There was silence for a while before Dipper let a grimace tug at his lips. A soft, nervous giggle vibrated in his throat, and he put a hand over his mouth to keep from bursting out laughing and crying and screaming, but that couldn't stop his shoulders from shaking. He could feel his voice wavering as he replied, fingers ghosting over the scars on his arm. "Yeah." He deadpanned, feeling numb and nervous and disgusted all at once. The nightmares had lasted for months after the opera incident. He still sometimes cringed at the sight of a good, sharp fork. What had happened at the site of Bill’s defeat had been even worse. "I need to take my  _ sister _ out for a moment to talk."

 

Mabel had seen the same page, and he knew that she knew how disturbed he was by that incident so long ago, and every one that took place after. Miss Terry nodded. "Of course, hon. Take as long as you need."

 

“I’m sorry, bro-bro,” said Mabel once they stepped into the hall, voice uncharacteristically quiet. “I knew it shook you up, but not this bad. I’m sorry. If I'd known I would have done something.”

 

A noncommittal growl was Dipper’s only reply for a moment. “Yeah.” He finally said, rubbing his arms and shivering.

 

There was a suffocating pause. “Do you want me to tell Miss T?  Maybe she could… Y’know,” she shrugged a little sheepishly before venturing, “avoid the subject?”

 

Dipper sighed, massaging the bridge of his nose between two fingers. As his lanky arm reached up, (he’d been noticeably heavier at the start of the summer and this unhealthy thinness was a bit off-putting) Mabel could see the countless white scars that peppered the pale skin. Some were still a little raised, and she felt a stabbing of guilt in her gut.

 

“I won't stop you.” He finally answered. Sure, he was sick of hearing about that damn triangle, but a part of him, the part that was sensible and unfeeling, insisted that he couldn't keep running from his problems. Dipper would let Mabel make the decision for him.

 

She gave him a reassuring grin, the ‘the-sun-is-singing-you-praises-and-so-am-I’ kind of smile that only Mabel could produce. It warmed him a little, and some of his apprehension melted away at the sight. He let loose a weak smile in return as they re-entered the classroom, Mabel’s hand gently massaging his lower back in small circles to comfort him.

 

The lecture continued, now having shifted to the topic of a lesser demon called Brian, who apparently took the form of a cluster of various organs in the shape of a duck, and granted wishes in exchange for small, seemingly unfair payments that tended to tip the deal in favor of his summoner.

 

Mabel looked shaken. He cocked his head slightly to one side, arching an eyebrow. “You alright?”

 

She shrugged, something like  _ fear _ flickering in her eyes. What was she afraid of? “I just hate seeing you feeling so bad, y’know, Dipper? You’re always there to look out for me, y’know? It scares me when you get spooked like this.”

 

He nodded, blinking dumbly. “Mabel, I’ll be totally fine,” he sighed pleasantly, petting her on the head, much to her playful displeasure.

Time went on. The day went on. Demonology was followed by summoning, and then a generous hour’s free period at the end of the day.

 

The week went on. Each day the classes were very much the same, on the same subject, in the same order. The sensible and orderly part of Dipper couldn't help but relish in the predictability of it all; he didn't have to worry about being possessed or deceived, he didn't have to look over his shoulder all day to make sure he wasn't being followed. It was good to be able to be relaxed each day, catching up with school time friends and rivals alike.

 

The nights, however, were an entirely different situation. He dreamt of Mabel. 

Each time, he saw her. Hurt and  _ needing him _ and just out of reach. He would run to her as quickly as he could without ever getting closer, and when he finally was able to reach out and touch her, a tugging sensation would yank at his guts.

 

Dipper’s dreams were then plagued with blood and candles, dark rooms illuminated only by blue fire and gleaming slitted eyes. He dreamt of demons and monsters. He dreamt of blades sunk deep in his arms and legs, throwing up sprays of crimson life as they were ripped out, only to be driven back in with just as much force as before. He woke with a silent scream, drenched in icy sweat.

 

One morning after a particularly violent nightmare involving a dead child and suicidal men and women in hoods, Dipper stumbled to the bathroom to clean himself up. At this point he knew better than to try to go back to sleep. Three-thirty in the morning was his new schedule. He could handle that.

 

In the bathroom mirror, he found someone he didn't quite recognize staring back at him, and stiffened. Dipper had certainly been sleep-deprived before, but this was something different. His face was pale and haggard and framed by greasy chunks of his wavy chestnut hair, deep purple circles under his eyes making him look like a raccoon. His eyes peered warily back at him. Usually a clear brown, they were red-rimmed and watery, glazed over with a pale yellowish film that couldn't possibly be healthy. He rubbed his eyes, trying in vain to rub the fog away. 

 

He had had enough. There would be no rest tonight- see the nightmares swallow him then, how about? Resigning himself to his sleepless fate, Dipper brushed his teeth and dressed himself before padding as quietly as he could downstairs into the kitchen to get breakfast. He was just about to drop a piece of bread into the toaster when Mabel came barreling into him at full pelt.

 

“Shit!” He cursed as they tumbled together across the peachy kitchen tile. “What was that for?”

 

Mabel grinned sheepishly at him, “Sorry. I just got some super great news, though!”

 

Dipper quirked an eyebrow, easing to his feet and pulling Mabel up with him. “Stan and Ford are like, getting along for once! Ford makes magic-y stuff, like those ward thingys you talked about? Magic nerd stuff, I guess. Tryina help people adjust, y’know? And Stan sells ‘em and he says the Shack’s never had such good business! Things’re great over there!”

 

“Okay.” Said Dipper, recovering his dropped bread. He blew it a little and shook it off a little more for good measure before dropping it into the toaster and turning it on. “And you know this how?”

 

“Wendy,” Mabel explained simply, “she texts me a bunch, y’know. If you would actually use your phone you would know this too.”

 

Dipper snorted at her as the toaster emitted a resonant ‘ding’ and spat up his toast. He buttered it and carried it on a plate to the kitchen table, munching as Mabel mirrored his actions with her own breakfast. Things seemed to be going well until Dipper happened to take one particular bite at his food, suddenly crying out loud enough for Mabel to drop her toast and scramble to the other side of the table to be next to him.

 

He pulled the bread away, and as he did so, long strings of something thick and red stretched between his mouth and a small white something embedded in the toast. Tentatively, Dipper felt around the inside of his mouth with his tongue only to find his left upper canine was no longer present. The revolting cocktail of saliva and blood dribbled down his chin as he stared in horror, plucking the tooth from his forgotten breakfast and examining it. That had been a permanent tooth- it had just fallen out for no reason in particular. No reason at all.

 

“Is that a baby tooth?” Mabel implored, seeming to read his thoughts. “You gonna put it under your pillow? I bet you’ll get a dollar- or maybe even two!”

 

Chocolate eyes met hazel as Dipper stared up at Mabel in horror, slumping low in his seat and shaking his head. “That was an adult tooth, Mabes. I lost my last baby tooth when I was eleven.”

 

“Oh.”

 

The silence hung thick in the air for a moment before, Mabel being Mabel, tried to make light of the situation.

 

“It was one of the pointy ones you lost, right?”

 

“Canines,” Dipper corrected, nodding.

 

Mabel seemed to mull over this for a moment before a wicked grin split her face. “Maybe you got bit by like, a vampire!”

 

“There will be no vampires in this house,” Anna Pines declared playfully, sweeping into the kitchen like a cheerful whirlwind, scooping up Mabel and spinning her around, only to set her down, a little roughly, and complain quietly about not being as young as she used to be. “You better not’ve been bit, squirt! I don't want you sparkling in the sun like those idiots on television.”

 

Dipper have a gap-toothed grin, chuckling in return before his smile fell. “This one fell out,” he explained, holding up the gleaming off-white canine between his thumb and forefinger. “Not sure why.”

 

“Is it a baby tooth?” Anna implored. 

 

Dipper shook his head. “Don’t think so.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“That’s what I said!” Mabel added before running off to grab her backpack with a swift salute to Dipper.

“Yeah,” he replied pushing his bloodied plate of toast aside. “I mean, I  _ think _ so. Maybe I was wrong?”

 

Anna nodded slowly. “So,” she ventured, “does it hurt or anything?”

 

“Nope.”

 

“I see.”

 

Dipper shrugged, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. Did he always make that face? “I guess I’m gonna keep a close eye out for myself and see if anything else seems like it’s wrong,” he assured her, noting the glitter of maternal concern that shone in her worried emerald eyes. “In the meantime there's nothing I can do.”

 

A hesitant nod was the only reply he got. Dipper shrugged a little, digging into the drawers of the kitchen and pulling out a plastic zip-tight sandwich bag. He deposited the tooth inside, shuddering a little before sealing the bag and stuffing it into his pocket.

 

“Alright then,” said Anna, an edge of seriousness cutting into her voice. “If you feel off even a little at school I want you to go straight to the nurse, and don’t hesitate to phone home if you need me to pick you up. I don’t understand all this supernatural nonsense, but I don’t want you getting hurt and I’d rather play it safe than sorry.”

 

Dipper’s light smirk widened into a full-blown leer. “Relax,” he assured her, the softly heartening tone of his voice contrasting the uncharacteristically nasty grin that split his face. “I’ll be fine. Mabes’n I have seen a lot weirder.” The malicious expression lightened to something that was passable as a stiffly forced kind of smile, flashing by so quickly that Anna wondered if she’d seen that predatory expression at all.

 

“Okay,” she acknowledged stiffly, wondering if Dipper had even realized what he’d done. He wandered off to retrieve his backpack, and with Mabel hot on his heels, the pair scampered down the hall. She heard the door shut behind them, leaving Anna alone in the kitchen with a plate of half eaten toast and blood on the table.


	2. Slipping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last time: the twins return home with stories to tell, not all pleasant, and reunite with old accquaintances. Meanwhile, signs of Dipper's illness begin to show...

The following weeks were bearers of bad news for the youngest Pines twin. The tooth Dipper had lost at breakfast became the first of many. He was almost constantly in pain, a dull ache growing in his gums as new teeth threatened to fall away, taking stringy threads of flesh and nerve along with them.

 

He bled. Blood dripped from the corners of his mouth and dried on his chin and his cheeks every night, oozing like metallic tar from the gaping wounds that filled his mouth and cocktailing easily in with his ropy saliva. Speech was torture; his tongue flailed uselessly against the space his incisors had once inhabited, bringing only pain and sprayed fluid and guttural growls of frustration and despair. The dull throbbing, the oppressing, crushing pressure in the base of his skull swelled suddenly and never ceased. The iron tang of blood in his mouth became an almost pleasant reminder that, no, he wasn't dead. Not yet. Dipper found himself beginning to slip. Slipping. He couldn't have that.

 

The nightmares plagued him worse than ever before. In the dark of his room, without Mabel beside him, (the last time she’d stayed, he had nearly bitten her hand off in his blind frenzy) he screamed a kind of caterwauling wail that should never have been produced by a human throat. He screamed and thrashed in his sleeping horror, deep furrows drawn against his skin by his own ragged fingernails as he clutched at his arms and tore at his legs and ripped himself apart because there was nothing else that would bleed for him to let loose on in his sleep as the night terrors took hold. They had considered tying him down in his sleep so he wouldn't hurt himself or others, but when they tried he had broken the bonds in only a minute.

 

Slipping. He kept on slipping.

 

He could hardly eat on his own at this point, let alone articulate coherent speech beyond his fog of pain and exhaustion. Basic grunts and clumsy, simple sentences were all his teachers and peers alike were going to get. Rumors had started to spread at school, more concerned than malicious, but destructive all the same. His peers weren’t to be blamed: between his perpetually bloodied face, dried blood crusted at the corners of his mouth and beneath his fingernails, milky, shadowed eyes, and a mind clouded by pain and lack of sleep, Dipper was safely passable as something other than human these days.

 

Some students said he was bitten by a vampire, others, a wendigo. It didn't matter to him. That month, he broke his perfect attendance record for the first time in years.

 

Thank the stars for Mabel.

 

“Rise and shine, Dippingsauce,” she called, teasing as usual, but a wavering note of concern, as had become habit in recent weeks, lingered beneath her trademark cheerful tone of voice. “You feeling alright?”

 

A soft, pained hiss was Dipper’s only response, but Mabel understood. She always seemed to.

 

“Oh, bro-bro,” she moaned, “what can I do to make you feel better?” The question was mostly rhetorical but Dipper had other plans, a clammy hand shooting out from under the blankets and grabbing Mabel by the sweater sleeve before she could amble away to ready herself for school. He tugged weakly, emitting a pained whine. Mabel sighed lightly and wiggled into the bed with Dipper, feeling his cold sweat against her skin. It wasn't right.

 

A part of her screamed wrong wrong wrong and get away but she pushed it down and stomped it out because she was Mabel Pines and nothing would stop her from comforting her brother. Her hand moved of its own accord in soothing circles on his back, feeling, with no shortage of horrified shudders, each defined vertebrae and the sharp points of his shoulderblades as skin stretched over them, approaching dangerous thinness and colder than any healthy person had the right to be.

 

In that moment, as he put his head in her lap and she didn't care as his blood trickled from a reopened cut down her calf, Mabel realized that her brother was dying. Dipper was going to die.

 

***

 

Mabel never said it aloud but Dipper came to a similar realization, almost at the same time. His body was withering, dying, failing, and he was still trapped inside. A part of him whispered, in that moment, foreign and familiar, just retreat, go back, but Dipper didn't understand. Go where? Why? Why not stay with his St-sister? In this bed, with her warmth beside him, grounding him, holding him down because if she didn't stay by his side Dipper now feared he might float away and never return.

 

Yes, he could envision it; this casing of flesh falling away in strips of tissue and sinew, bones melting down from the sheer force of that which burned within him. That part of him, wise and young and ever so old and curious and knowing, writhed within its current vessel. It screamed quietly to burst forth and a part of Dipper almost wanted to let it do so, but something held him back. He could sense his own cruel intentions.

 

Mabel would hate him for thinking such a thing, for entertaining the thought at all let alone for as long as he had. So he pressed his face into her, smelling her cotton candy scent and hearing her bubblegum voice and feeling her soft locks of chestnut hair cascading over his own unruly curls as he put his arms around her and he held her to him, closer than he ever remembered doing before because she was the only thing he had. She was the only thing, the keystone supporting the dam that kept this foreign, familiar, anarchical part of him at bay.

 

***

 

Neither of them knew quite what happened, but it would later be described as a flicker. Dipper _flickered_. One moment he was solid and cool and sticky and his breaths were hot against Mabel’s skin and the next there was just ice as his form grew dull and transparent and _phased through her._

 

It was like a bucket of ice water had just been dumped over her head, and she cried out in alarm as Dipper’s freezing arm passed through her chest. A cold that reached deeper than her bones, down to her very being, her soul, it paralyzed her. The cold filled the room, the air around her brother like a miasma. She wanted to scream but her voice caught in her throat- was he a ghost? A spirit? What was happening to Dipper? Her panicked thoughts were just a mess of noise, pounding in her skull as Dipper just sat there, staring at the hand he’d extracted from her own midsection. He seemed almost semi-transparent. His colors were a little faded, tinted a ghastly blue, and through him she could see the distorted images of the bedside table and window behind him.

 

He looked up at her, eyes full of panic and fear as he shuddered, hot breath leaving chapped lips in a shaky, cyclical procession of quick, shallow huffs, and was solid again. The temperature in the room was immediately several degrees warmer, at least it felt like it, but neither twin bothered to notice. No, Dipper just sobbed, cupping his mouth in his hands to muffle the sound as he curled in on himself and wept. His breaths came in short, desperate gasps as he started to hyperventilate, eyes full of horror and fear as they rolled in their sockets, flitting desperately between Mabel and other seemingly random areas of the room. His remaining teeth were clenched loosely, clattering against each other as he drew back into Mabel’s arms, shivering.

 

“No, no, no, no, no…” He repeated the word like a mantra and for the first time, Mabel didn't know how to make things better. She just stroked his greasy hair and shushed him gently and rubbed circles on his back because she was helpless and nothing she could say would be able to help him.

 

“Shh,” she soothed, cupping a hand on his cheek the way their mother used to do when he was small and had bad dreams. “It’s okay, it’s okay.” Mabel pressed her lips against his forehead, murmuring soothing words and reassuring hums as they swayed from side to side in place.

 

His breath came in shallow, heaving gasps with no indication of slowing. He hyperventilated, choking on his own bloodied saliva and sputtering in blind panic against Mabel, fingers curled like claws into the folds of her sweater. Stubbornly, Mabel kept on swaying, one hand massaging his back and the thumb of the other gently rubbing at his tear stained cheek while his head was tucked into the crook of her neck. She hummed softly, noting with some concern the way Dipper arced expectantly into her touch, a harsh choking sound bubbling up from his throat as fresh tears threatened to fall.

 

“P-please,” Dipper said, voice raw and weary in a way that made Mabel’s heart drop to her feet, “Don't let him- Bill! Don't! He- I can't! Not again! Not this, oh, not again!” The raspy lisp and halting speech would have almost been funny if it weren't for how he shook and how his voice trembled with horror at the mere thought. Mabel wished she could just rip apart the thing that had done this to Dipper, that made him have to suffer through this, despite knowing he was long gone. She tuned out his continued ranting, focusing on the rapid beating of her own heart and the unusual slowness that pulsed in Dipper’s chest even as he panicked.

 

Bill had died a long time ago. Dipper was still often paranoid and jumpy but he’d actually managed to relax rather quickly after the near-apocalypse they’d lived through. He was relieved, of course, that things didn't turn out worse, and while nightmares and certain reminders could leave him reeling, he’d, for the most part, entirely recovered. What triggers he did have were fairly specific, like one-eyed triangles, being called Pine Tree, or other such tics that were almost entirely unique to Bill himself. Not much else bothered him, with medication for more generalized anxiety doing its work and a relatively relaxed living environment, things were as okay as they’d ever be. Being forced into what was most likely a metaphysical state of being, halfway between the Mindscape at its truest and the physical plane, was one such trigger that drew him into a panic. That must have been what happened, though there was no way of knowing why or how, that's how things appeared.

 

Dipper’s panicked rambling was reaching a crescendo, his knuckles white and Mabel’s skin scratched as his desperate fingers curled tighter around the wool of her sweater and his ragged fingernails rubbed against the flesh underneath. Mabel cut him off as gently as she could, stroking his greasy chestnut curls. “He’s gone, bro. He can't hurt you anymore.” I won't let him went unspoken. Dipper started to pull away, mouth open to stutter something else, but Mabel didn't give him a chance to voice it. “No buts. You're gonna be okay.”

 

“I don’t- s’not safe-!” He pressed his head into her chest, prompting a mischievous grin from Mabel.

 

A soft sigh escaped her as he nuzzled closer, taking refuge in her warmth. “I love you dearly, bro-bro,” Mabel said, a fresh note of teasing in her voice, “but can you please get your face out of my boobs?”

 

In turn, Dipper’s face went hot and red as he sputtered and yanked away. “Eww!” He half-shouted, “M’sorry!” His flushed face and disgusted expression were genuinely comical, his embarrassment a decent respite from his prior misery. “M’sorry Mabes! S’gross! S’really gross!”

 

Mabel just laughed. “No problem bro-bro. They do make good pillows, after all.”

 

A lopsided half-smirk pulled at his lips as he lowered his head into her lap again, resting his cheek on her knee. “I love you,” he told her, and it was true. She hadn't been smiling any less than usual as of late, but they were strained smiles, forced laughs. It was good that his blunder brought genuine giggles bubbling to the surface, a welcome respite from their shared misery. In complete honesty, seeing Mabel laugh so carelessly did more to ease the pain and fear than any medication ever did.

 

But things change. Summer ends. This moment had to end, all too soon, and Mabel was whisked away to get to school before she'd be late, leaving Dipper’s mind to wander.

 

That was never a good thing for someone like Dipper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh sorry for lateness here, things've been hectic  
> Dipper admits that yes, boobs are comfortable. That doesn't make it any less awkward.  
> They need more cuddly twin moments with hugs and awkward invasion of personal space because that's how twins roll, I would know  
> Goodness knows poor DipDop needs em bad


	3. Dehydration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last time: With Dipper near dead on his feet, Mabel offers support. He can no longer go to school, and his sickness only worsens...

Mabel went about her school time activities with an aching numbness. Going through the motions was muscle memory, leaving her troubled mind to stew in her worry for Dipper. He never missed school, not ever. A mysterious, potentially supernatural illness was one thing, but one that kept him from his studies was a different monster entirely.

  
She was too numb to be properly worried, but concern coiled in the pit of her stomach like an iron snake. It wasn't uncommon for her to be distracted during class, but she could hardly concentrate at all. She was trying, she really was, but the words written out on the board were just blurred scribbles, unintelligible to her eyes.

  
She got away with stumbling blindly through most of her classes, but not Miss Terry’s block. The woman almost immediately gravitated towards her once the other students had trickled on to their free period.

  
“What’s the matter, Miss Terry?” Mabel asked out of reflex, slightly dazed that the words had actually made it past her lips.

  
The woman’s soft eyes glimmered with something like anxiety, shakily sympathetic. “I noticed your brother wasn't here, and you seem distracted.” She bent down a bit, putting a stubby hand on Mabel’s shoulder and squeezing gently. “Is something wrong? Something… At home?”

 

A soft gasp escaped Mabel and she shook her head profusely. “No! No. Nothing like that, Miss Terry.” She frowned, feeling hot tears prick at the corners of her eyes. “Dip’s just been really sick.”

  
“Oh? Has he seen a doctor?” Terry pressed, voice low and gentle.

  
Mabel shook her head. “Mum’s a nurse, though. She said bedrest and staying hydrated would help him, but he’s just gotten sicker.” She could feel the heat blossoming on her blotchy cheeks as she swallowed the urge to cry. That didn’t stop her voice from coming out small and frail when she said, “I’m scared.”

  
Nearly as soon as those two tiny words fell from her lips, Mabel burst into tears. Shuddering sobs shook her little round body and she was suddenly not thirteen but three, snuffling and gasping as she cried. Terry seemed taken aback, but put her gentle arms around Mabel and rubbed soothing circles into her back, just like Mabel had done for Dipper just this morning.

  
It was hard, and it was too much. Mabel didn’t know what to do and that scared her, but the worst thing about it was knowing that there was nothing she could do to save Dipper, her other half, and her only brother. She had no choice here but to cry where he couldn’t see.

  
#

  
One would be surprised with the places a human mind as young as Dipper’s could wander in only a few hours, but the thoughts came and went like mayflies, intrusive and short-lived, but powerful.

  
(What if he was cursed? Turning into a werewolf? A bear? A were-bear?)

  
He actually laughed through the foam of sickness on his tongue at that last thought, and imagined a grizzly bear with a constellation on its forehead and his trademark trucker cap squished between its ears.

  
(Were were-bears dangerous? Bears ate mostly plants and berries and fish, right? Not red meat, usually.)

  
And then the image spilled, unbidden, into his brain, something human but not quite with glistening entrails, still warm and leaking, caught between its double rows of fangs and draped around its neck like some kind of macabre scarf. The images were rich with the bitter tang of blood and death in the air and on his tongue and how _gorgeous_ that looked bathed in the greenish light of-

  
Absolutely not. Dipper did _not_ just think that. Not at all. He needed water. He was thirsty. Dehydrated. That was it.

  
Unsteady, but slowly adjusting, he slid his stiff legs from the bed and stumbled across his room. He was only in his boxers but he didn’t care, shuffling tiredly downstairs. He pulled a clean glass from the cupboard and filled it with lukewarm water from the tap, gulping it down with something like desperation.

  
“Dipper, sweetheart?”

  
He didn’t at all mean to snap at his mother, but something feral and afraid filled his lungs like blocks of ice tucked in the pockets of flesh branching like roots within him. Something feral and afraid drew his lips back into a snarl and something feral and afraid inside of him pulled a hiss from his throat, like an unwillingly milked cobra giving warning that it had had enough.

  
Dipper had no idea where it came from, but before he could even process it, the glass was in glimmering shards on the tile, cutting into bare feet and calloused palms. His forehead twitched as he tucked his head down between his shoulders, gasping on his hands and knees as his heart fluttered like a bird’s and his throat constricted in dry heaves of bile.

  
Once he’d caught his breath, Dipper looked up to see what damage he’d done. His mother was shaking against the kitchen table, eyes blown wide as dinner plates. Something between fear (of him or for him he couldn’t tell) and relief slow-danced within her jade eyes.

  
Something, though, was off. A color, writhing between orange and purple and green, curled around her navel. Bitter-tasting yellow fear dripped from her, sticky and cold, and warm, spicy-sweet tendrils of blue concern like mist hung over her head like a halo.

  
“Y’look _s’more_ -pull,” Dipper blurted, sinking to his bottom against the sink. He could smell it, taste it in a way that was not taste at all, feel it, rolling from her. Every feeling was around him and a part of him and heavy in the empty air; a brighter pulse of blue-green-yellow concern-confusion-fear dissipated around Anna as he let his eyes slide closed. Even then, tangy fear like lemon drops and margaritas coated his tongue as he felt her arms wrap around him, felt her pull him over her shoulder and carry him to the sofa in the living room.

  
He tucked his spindly little legs about him and buried himself into the cushions and borrowed blankets. Something sweet and warm like pumpkin spice and home cooking filled his awareness, _love_ , that foreign part of him supplied, _love and concern. For you (us.)_ Dipper sighed shakily, letting himself take in that warmth, feeling his mother card her delicate fingers through his greasy hair.

  
“‘M’sorry,” he mumbled in a quaking voice, forcing his heavy eyes open enough to look up. “Y’startled me.”

  
Anna sighed, a soft sound that brought to mind images of slightly swaying willow trees and warm tea. “It’s alright, baby.” She pressed the pad of her thumb against his cheek, wiping away tears Dipper hadn’t realized were there. “Momma’s here.”

  
Dipper hummed in acknowledgement and reveled in the all-encompassing sensation of mild mesquite concern laced thickly with buttery-sweet love that curled through the air, across his skin, on his tongue and behind his eyes. The colors were so thick in the air that they obscured Anna’s face from his vision, lost behind honey shades of love and pepper. He practically basked in it, curling his fingers into her shirt and nuzzling against her navel and feeling his heart lurch and bile rise in his throat as the coldness filled him again. He _flickered. Again._

  
“Ma!” He cried shrilly, flailing in his panic and passing through the sofa without resistance. Some distant muscle memory told him to let his limbs fall limp until the violent roll was finished, and that same disturbing familiarity with the situation instructed him to tuck his legs beneath him with knees slightly bent. Dipper floated some two or three feet above the floor, paddling with his arms as though swimming in order to navigate. He hadn't been able to do this last time.

  
Mabel had been able to see him, looked right at him. Anna didn't seem to have that ability. She must have felt the cold, though, and cried out when he first passed into this state of being. But now that the shock had worn off, she was panicking, and he had to stop her before things got worse.

  
He phased through the ceiling up to Mabel’s room, to her bed, beneath which he knew hand-knitted socks came to die upon becoming mismatched and forgotten. Dipper wasted no time in possessing a glittery purple sock, stitched thick with sequins and ribbon along the band.

  
Anna was shrieking his name in desperation. The sound echoed through the house and the air was permeated with citrus terror. Dipper had to help, and quickly. He’d already phased halfway down through the floor to the room below when he remembered that the sock was a physical object, and couldn't come with him. With an irritated huff, he disengaged himself from the floorboards and carried the sock downstairs, following the same route he’d have taken if he was currently on the physical plane.

  
“Mom!” Dipper shouted, putting his whole being into carrying his voice through the tiny vessel.

  
Anna jumped at his voice, and turned around to face the glittery footwear. Glittery footwear currently suspended several feet above the ground by an invisible force and speaking with the voice of her deathly ill and now mysteriously-vanished son. Anna liked to think she was an open minded parent, but this was _too much._

  
She keeled over in a dead faint.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no excuse for the lateness and poor quality of this chapter! It absolutely DID NOT want to be written, and I apologize.


	4. Troubled Kids

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last time: Mabel's resolve is crumbling, and it is growing increasingly apparent. While she confides in a teacher, Dipper contemplates his condition, and his rapid loss of corporeality frightens Anna.
> 
> Miss Terry plans to act.

Teresa Neri was thoroughly perturbed over Mabel’s situation. The high-schooler had a tendency to be fidgety and inattentive, frequently chatting and doodling during class time, but she knew this was only because her hyperactivity was something she couldn’t help. What had happened today was something akin to grief or mourning in the poor girl, something enough to utterly cripple her and bring a usually bubbly, outgoing character to tears.

 

This was concerning. She couldn’t stop thinking about Mabel for the whole of the drive home from work. The thoughts didn’t disperse even sitting in tightly packed traffic for half an hour and they certainly made no indication of leaving her be by the time she pulled into the driveway at her home. Teresa hesitated for only a moment before whipping out her cell phone and remembering that she had absolutely no clue of the Pines’ home number, at least not off the top of her head.

 

With a huff, she hopped from the car and bounded up the driveway, over the porch, and unlocked the door. She all but sprinted up the hallway stairs into her living room and swerved into the dining room to the hutch where she kept the phonebook and school directory.

 

_ Patterson… _

 

_ Peters… _

 

_ Pines! _

 

She’d already punched in the number and waited through five dial tones before she realized this might not be her place to intervene and they didn’t appear to be answering the phone anyway. Once the final tone cried shrilly for her to leave a message, she made an effort to calm herself and start small.

 

“Hello, this is Teresa Neri from Piedmont High. I’m the Pines twins’ teacher in,” she paused and considered the pros and cons of mentioning demons to potentially uninitiated parents. ‘transcendent defense’ and I just wanted to call to notify you of my concern for your children, namely Mabel.” She paused a moment to swallow thickly and wet her lips before continuing. “She’s seemed very troubled today and class and that’s a pretty serious statement referring to your daughter. As not only a teacher but a guardian of my students, I want you to be aware that I am here and if there is anything I can do to support her in school, consider it done.” Another pause hesitated in the air as she considered how best to conclude. “I hope everything’s alright and please call back if you need me.”

 

She set the receiver down with a click and fell back onto her sofa with a sigh. What could she do?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh you guys I'm super sorry for the short length and long wait for this chapter! I've been blocked pretty badly with this story. D': This kind of doesn't even count as a chapter if I'm honest and I apologize once again. 3


	5. Seeing is Believing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last time: Teresa feels compelled to look out for the Pines kids, but isn't sure where to begin. Feeling lost, she phones their parents...
> 
> Mabel arrives on the scene, bad memories are recalled, and Dipper says smorple far too many times in a row to be intelligible.

Mabel took the long way home from school, trotting over the far side of the park to enjoy the fresh air and clear her thoughts. Her eyes were still red-rimmed and puffy from crying, too, and she needed that to clear up before she came home, so Dipper wouldn't see and get even more upset.

 

She arrived at home to find Dipper hovering over the unconscious body of their mother-- and not in the mundane sense of fretting and doting, either; he was literally floating several feet above the ground with his legs tucked about him.

 

It didn't take a genius to tell that something was very wrong.

 

Dipper’s once dark irises seemed pale and glassy, the sclerae of his eyes shot through with distinct, dark veins the color of coal as he stared dumbly down at their mother. His skin, while always vaguely pallid, seemed translucent now; like tissue paper wrapped tentatively round blue-blooded muscle and bone. It was only when he lifted his head to look at Mabel that she noticed, with no shortage of dimly realized horror, that he was indeed transparent, the objects behind tinted ghostly blue and black.

 

“Mabes?” His voice was hardly more than a hoarse whisper, thin and wavering as he rubbed his head.

 

Mabel blanched. She’d only ever heard this panicked thinness to his voice during an anxiety attack. Not wanting to cause him further alarm, she spoke and moved slowly, as though approaching a feral animal.

 

“Yes, Dipper. It’s me.” Her voice was guarded to mask the thickness of oncoming tears rimming her eyes. “I’m right here.”

 

Her brother’s outline flickered briefly, turning void-like and dark as a night sky, before returning to its previous ghostly pallor. “I k͠n͟o͏w̡.” Said Dipper, voice slipping abruptly into a warbling sort of background noise that sent a shudder down Mabel’s back.

 

It struck her so deeply that, though the panicked frustration in his tone was very distinctly typical of her brother, the only thing she heard was the voice of Bill Cipher. She shivered at the thought of the demon’s shrill cackle; “ _I know LƠ̭̞͕̩T̳̭̲̲̪̘S̘ ̭̣̱̙̩͖O̢F҉̭̦̬ ̘̫͙̦͇̯T̪̱̤̲͈͟H͚̼̱͙͕̭I͓̼̩̳͉̬̲N͍̙̟̮G̷̟̝̘̩͚̖̳S҉̭̜͖̯!_ ”

 

She dropped her bookbag, backpedaling till she stumbled and wiggled beneath the kitchen table. Dipper cocked his head to one side and blinked, very, very slowly. “Mabel?” he hummed, and to her relief he sounded himself once again. “You look smoor-pel. Smorple. Smorple! That’s it!” He seemed distinctly satisfied at having come to this conclusion. “Smorple. Mum looked smorple, too, before she fainted.”

 

He sounded thoroughly dumb to Mabel. “S’more-what-now?” Taking this as a good sign, she very carefully removed herself from under the table.

 

“ _Smorple_ ,” he corrected, and she sighed inwardly. The foreign, nonsensical word was getting old, and fast. “It’s… Hard to explain.”

 

At length, Mabel frowned. “Is it bothering you?”

 

“Not really,” admitted Dipper with a shrug. “It’s strange, but I feel used to it already.” A little, twee frown that was nearly a pout pulled at his lips as he pressed the back of his neck with a grimace and tossed his head from side to side, as though to rid himself of a fly buzzing in his ear. “From what I've gathered, it seems almost like-- like- a sixth sense, or something.”

 

“Oh.” This wasn't so bad, Mabel supposed. Dipper was still Dipper; once he was done panicking, he started doing his smart guy thing and getting all nerdy. She looked down at their still-sleeping mother. “We should put Mom in bed, or at least on the sofa before we do anything else.”

 

Dipper huffed a little, earning an arched eyebrow from Mabel. “I'm not solid,” he confessed, voice wavering once more as he massaged his temples. “I could pass through the ceiling before. Like a ghost.”

 

Mabel’s mouth hung open but she made no sound. At the conclusion of an awkward and lengthy pause, she somewhat dumbly repeated, “Oh,” and frowned. “That might be a problem, huh?” She pulled a chair from the kitchen table and sat down. “Do you feel okay?”

 

He stared at her intently and said, “What do you mean?”

 

“I _mean_ ,” intoned Mabel, “the last time you stopped being solid, you panicked. _Are you okay_?”

 

Dipper shrugged noncommittally. “I already finished my freaking out,” he admitted. “It was bad at first but I don't seem to be going back to normal anytime soon. If I don't try to accept it and approach the problem logically, I won't be able to do anything about it, I guess. Got a pretty bad headache, though.”

 

Satisfied with her brother’s words, Mabel beamed. “Don't worry too much, bro-bro. After this whole apocalypse thing, magic’s all over the place. Maybe you've been hexed! Or cursed! Or _twix’d_! Whatever’s up, we’re the _Mystery Twins_! We can handle it as long as we're together!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh dear, Mabel... If only...


	6. Shepherd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last time: Mabel meets Dipper back at the house only to find his condition worsening. As her brother inadvertently likens himself to Bill, she masks growing worry behind plastic cheer...
> 
> Dipper meets his worst (best?) nightmare(s).

A noncommittal sound of agreement was all the reply she got as Dipper bobbed in midair, staring, glassy-eyed, down at his hands.

 

“What’s wrong?”asked Mabel, brow knit in concern.

 

He had at first motioned to reply, but the sheer  _pressure_ building at the base of his skull had escalated far beyond the mildly irritating buzz in the back of his head it had been when it began. Dipper opened his mouth to speak, but all that slipped out was an agonized whimper. The sensation shuddered once, twice, shook him to his bones and returned twofold, blinding red stars and blotches of color stabbing at his eyes.

 

Crying out, Dipper doubled over in the air and clutched his head, fingers curling like claws into his scalp. The pressure reached another crescendo, striking him so hard he couldn't even move as a mental floodgate broke open violently enough for him to nearly lose himself in its raging mass. The pain in his head was so severe, he hardly even processed the renewed weight in his limbs as he dropped to the ground like a fly.

 

Darkness pulled at the edges of his vision. His cumbersome body felt too small, his skin too tight, bones ready to shatter from the unseen force in him. Through the smoky haze clouding his vision, Dipper could very distantly see Mabel’s little pink hands waving at his face.

 

Through the smoky haze clouding his vision, Dipper could very distantly see her little pink hands, soft flesh around brittle bone, so fragile that it struck him as funny. He was aware of laughing weakly, feeling his throat vibrate with chuckles that sent choking gasps up his chest. The part of him that knew what such a ludicrous sensation as smorple was thought, ‘ _how cute_.’

 

He knew this was very unlike himself to have had this thought, but it occurred him that he hadn't really laughed since this awful illness began.

 

#

 

When waking, it felt to Dipper as though only a few moments had passed. Blades of grass and leaves tickled his skin, curling into his ears and in his hair as he lay sprawled on the ground. Mud cooled his bare calves and arms as he lay upon it, staring up into the canopy of a cluster of trees.

 

The pocket of forest was exotic and frightening, even in monochrome. A mat of tangled vines lay draped between the trees, but the tall trunks were festooned thickly with frondlike growths akin to pine needles. The trees were gnarled and stark, looking nigh two hundred feet in height the way they spiraled up into the foggy gray sky.

 

Pulling himself upright, Dipper bounced on the soles of his feet, feeling oddly light. The ground was spongy underfoot, soft and springy with roots that poked up through the soil and tickled his bare feet. Thick masses of ferny bushes grew swollen with small ripe fruits, and the sky above seemed dim and gave the impression of evening, though it seemed the light was from a midday sun the way it drifted in powdery beams through the tangles of branches above.

 

Curiously, Dipper glanced about, wondering now where he was. Logic told him this must be the Mindscape, which logic also told him was impossible. Logic further advised him to be panicking right now, the situation was so thoroughly saturated with traumatic recollection, but these woods seemed to lean in towards him, like old friends. This was certainly not the pine forest of Gravity Falls, he knew, that much, but the place seemed distinctly familiar to him for no discernable reason.

 

Despite being only in his boxers and a short-sleeved shirt, he did not feel cold, nor exposed. At a moment's pause, Dipper released a breath he hadn't known he was holding, and padded to the edge of the muddy clearing to peer cautiously through the foliage and ensure there was no danger.

 

A breeze, warm and sharp with the scents of citrus and wine, slipped through the trees, and something in Dipper stirred. His mouth hung open like a dog’s, and the taste of copper and pecan set him dribbling like one, too. Before he could stop himself, he was bolting through this fantastic jungle, bare feet flying over packed earth as brambles and vines ducked out of his way of their own accord.

 

Nostrils flaring and chest heaving, Dipper followed his nose, impressions of alcohol and sweets coating his lolling pink tongue as he bounded through the woods like a fresh spring stag.

 

At length, the boy skidded to a clumsy stop at the forest’s edge. A rippling field of grass lay stretched out before him, though known only to his eyes in grayscale it was no less impressive. The view, however lovely, though, was not the most valuable recipient of his attention.

 

Massive black boars, their greasy hides thick with flies and oil, grunted and bared their tusks at a tiny grayish mass that seemed vaguely shaped like a lizard. Steaming dark blood spilled from a gash on its little belly, and it was clear that it would die if no one intervened.

 

There didn't seem to be anyone else here. Now, Dipper by no means took himself as a hero, but he couldn't just let it die? Could he?

 

Stupidly, he pulled a sharp stick from a bush and held his breath. His grip tightened, muscles tense as he hesitated. In a leap of blind faith, he finally came flying from the edge of the jungle, dull teeth bared in some pathetic impression of a snarl. However, he hardly even brandished the makeshift weapon when the pigs squealed in voices sharp as glass, and went lumbering away as quickly as their clumsy hooves could take them.

 

This was curious. Dipper hollered and waved the stick a few times to make sure they wouldn't come back before dropping roughly to his knees in the grass. The lizard was pale and round, with stubby fingers and frond-like growths on its head resembling feathers. Its soft, moist skin suggested that it was not a lizard but an amphibian, though Dipper pushed the technicalities away and combed his mind for something he could do to save the impish little salamander.

 

A thought occurred to him. One could do whatever they could envision in the Mindscape, right? Gingerly, Dipper ghosted his fingers over the animal’s open belly and willed the wound to heal. Hungry curls of blue- the only color yet in this monochrome world- emanated from his hands like firelight, seeping into the wound and pulsing in time with his heartbeat. Slowly, the gash closed and the flesh knitted itself back together, the bleeding stopped, and the animal stared up in distinct confusion with its beady black eyes.

 

Dipper brought his hands away and sighed deeply, feeling drained. The salamander gurgled softly and crept tentatively over the grass to peer up at him, sizing him up and shaking its head. That head was about the size of Dipper’s palm, so he curled two fingers together and gently stroked the animal’s cold, slimy skin in reassurance.

 

In a soft pulse of that same blue, the odd, frilled salamander was no longer present, replaced by a stormy-woolen sheep. It appeared very convincingly akin to a regular ewe, save the third eye blinking rapidly on its forehead.

 

“ _T H A N K Y O U, MASTER._ ” Said the sheep in a voice like coarse sand.

 

Dipper blanched, stared a moment, and screamed.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaa and here's the Flock's beginnings. They grow up so fast. <3


	7. Naming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last time: After awakening in his Mindscape, Dipper claims Bill's legacy as his own.
> 
> Dipper bonds with his Flock, gets to know himself, and is vaguely disgusted by what he finds. Mabel does her best to tend to their mother, calls for help, and knows that this isn't going to get better.

Dipper screamed. He did so shrilly and loudly enough to make an opera singer proud of his falsetto, before clapping his hands over his mouth and recoiling from the monstrous talking sheep. It lifted a trotter hesitantly, shirking back as Dipper silenced himself and breathed deeply to ease his panic.

 

“ _I AM S O R R Y !_ ” Cried the nightmarish bovine, revealing a mouthful of teeth like bent steak knives, “ _I DID NOT MEAN TO STARTLE YOU, MASTER._ ” It quailed, lowering its dark head till its velvety nose was brushing the grass. “ _P L E A S E DO NOT PUNISH ME T O O B A D L Y._ ”

 

Holding up his hands in a universal gesture of placation, Dipper righted himself and blinked dumbly at the sheep. “P-punish you?” He echoed, frowning. “You didn't do anything wrong!” Dipper stepped back, waving his hands about to signal his denial. “I was just surprised, is all. Didn't know you could talk.”

 

Crouching at eye level with the animal, Dipper hesitated, but saw fit to reach out. He spread his fingers and stroked the sheep’s thick, soft wool. The animal at first cowered, but leaned eagerly into the gentle contact as it realized no harm was meant towards it.

 

“ _YOU ARE A G O O D M A S T E R._ ” Bleated the sheep reverently, dipping its dark head low in a bow.

 

Dipper stood straight and crossed his arms thoughtfully. “You keep saying that. What do you mean, ‘master?’”

 

The sheep cocked its head to one side. “ _YOU K I L L E D HIM, THE OLD MASTER. THAT MAKES US Y O U R S._ ”

 

“Us? There are more?” Dipper inquired, ignoring the wetness that slicked his mouth at that profane syllable. _Mine_. “Where?”

 

The sheep bleated wordlessly and tipped its head, asking silently if it was alright for the boy to follow it. He nodded and obeyed as the pair padded over the grass and back into the jungle. This time around, Dipper noticed the multitude of wide, unblinking eyes that were carved into the trees. He curled his lip at the vile symbols and the memories upon which they called, but oddly felt no fear towards them.

 

Deep within the monochrome forest, beyond the thick mats of vines that had obscured Dipper’s view when he’d first awoken, was a marsh of sludge and thorns. If memory served, the familiarity of the forest was no coincidence; this spot was where a lake would be back in the Falls. The pale bodies of salamanders dragged themselves across the mud, their limbs sickly thin and bellies distended like those of small savages. Some had extra eyes, or limbs, but all appeared ill and weak as they rooted in vain through the mud for food.

 

“ _THESE ARE MY S I B L I N G S,_ ” explained the sheep sorrowfully. “ _THE OLD MASTER DID NOT CARE FOR US, EVEN D E V O U R E D US. THE BROTHERS I LOST DID NOT EVEN DISOBEY. WE N E V E R DISOBEY. WE BELONGED TO HIM, IN ALL ASPECTS._ ” It looked up at Dipper with earnest eyes. “ _I SENSE YOU ARE N O T T H E S A M E._ ”

 

“No,” Dipper mumbled hoarsely. “I think not.” Those eyes in the forest weren't there for nothing, neither was the pit in his stomach.

 

“ _THERE IS NO DOUBT IN MY MIND._ ” bleated the sheep. “ _PLEASE,_ ” it begged, dark eyes glimmering, “ _TAKE MY BROTHERS AND SISTERS. PROTECT US AND WE SHALL B E L O N G TO YOU._ ”

 

Dipper’s gut churned restlessly, the thought of these creatures being his property at once enthralling and revolting. “All of you?” whispered Dipper, heart pounding as something possessive and feral reared its ugly head inside him. _Mine mine mine. All mine._

 

“ _IF YOU WILL TAKE US, YES._ ”

 

“I’ll do my best,” he mumbled at length. _Mine_. “I’ll take care of you.” Not for their servitude, he told himself. Because they were poor and sickly and they needed his help, that was why.

 

The sheep lifted a trotter and made its way into the marsh. “ _ALL MY BROTHERS AND SISTERS! HAIL OUR NEW MASTER!_ ”

 

At once, the pale salamanders shimmered and became similarly macabre impressions of sheep. They bleated and trotted behind Dipper and the first of the group to the clearing in the field, where the boy put his hands on his hips and sighed deeply.

 

“There sure are a lot of you,” he observed. “What are your names?”

 

One dainty-looking ewe seemed to shrug. “ **The old master called us whatever he pleased, and so can you, sir.** ”

 

Dipper frowned. “That won't do,” he insisted. “You must have names. Anyone?”

 

“ _WE ARE NAMELESS NIGHTMARES,_ ” confessed the first sheep. “ _BUT WE WOULD BE HONORED FOR YOU TO CALL US AS YOU PLEASE._ ”

 

“ **Yes sir,** ” the dainty one added shrilly. “ **That you have offered us a constant form and a field to graze alone is more than we could have hoped for.** ”

 

“Um, yes, sure,” agreed Dipper with some hesitance. “I’m glad I can give that to you.” He chewed his lip and twiddled his fingers some in thought before shrugging. “You can name yourselves. Quite frankly it's up to you.”

 

There was a buzz among the flock. “ _TRULY?_ ” They stared up at Dipper with awed red eyes.

 

In response, the boy nodded solemnly. “Absolutely.”

 

A buzz of chatter arose once more; “ **Grazer of Eternity!** ” One nightmare with spiraling horns cried.

 

Yet another nightmare grinned like a shark,“ _That of Teeth,_ ” it decided, and waved its spiky tail.

 

“ **I AM GROKNAR THE DESTROYER.** ” Declared another of many eyes, horns and curly wool.

 

The others continued to gleefully compose an array of ridiculous names and titles for themselves. Horace the Hooved Horror tossed his shaggy head and knelt on the grass beside Dipper, who did the same, stroking the animal’s coarse, thick coat. Darcrack, Dreamer’s Bane, picked up a tiny black nightmare lamb by the scruff and placed it on his master’s lap before doing the same. All of the sheep, in a buzz of much bleating and huffing, settled themselves in a circle around Dipper, cushioning him among their soft wool as he stroked their heads and scratched behind their ears in return.

 

Slowly, with his head on Groknar’s soft belly, Dipper let his eyes slip shut with a contented sigh. He felt the animal beneath him shift and turn, and felt its sandpaper tongue gently grooming his hair. He hummed in appreciation and nuzzled closer into this unlikely eldritch dogpile, feeling the pleasant warmth seep into his bones as he drifted into unconsciousness.

 

#

 

Mabel’s dilemma was a serious one. Her mother was currently sprawled, unconscious, on the living room floor, and the pillow from the sofa she’d stuffed under her head didn't seem to make things appear any more comfortable. Dipper had poofed out of existence, and given that the purple sock was lifeless on the floor beside her mother’s navel, it was safe to say he was _gone_ gone and not just ‘Mabel-can-see-me-but-no-one-else-can’ gone.

 

This worried her deeply. Dipper was sick. He was unwell and scared and probably panicking right now, and she’d put him into a nest of her stuffed animals and his favourite books until the familiar sensations of paper beneath his fingers and cotton candy in the air would lull him back to relaxation, except he was gone and she _couldn't_.

 

She spent a fair amount of time pacing and mulling over the situation until she figured Dipper would be satisfied with her analysis of the situation. Mabel turned to the obvious solution-- she dug out her cell phone from her backpack and punched in a number. It should (and would, she knew) connect her to the blocky old flip-phone she’d convinced Grunkle Stan to obtain last summer before leaving on his sailboat trip with Great Uncle Ford.

 

It was picked up almost immediately.

 

“Mabel? That you, pumpkin?”

 

“Yep!”

 

There was a grumble on the other end. “Figured,” said Stan. “You should be the only person with m’number.”

 

“Yeah.” She swallowed, hard, and took a deep breath. “So, um- I hate to be a buzzkill, ‘specially since we haven't talked in awhile, but- some bad stuff’s happened and I thought you and Great Uncle Ford might be able to help me!”

 

A staticky pause. Mabel heard Stan shout gruffly away from the receiver, and other voices call back. One was just as, if not more gravelly as her Grunkle, though punctuated by sputtering belches and coughing. Another, she recognized as being Ford’s, and the third was likely as shrill as Mabel herself, though possessing the reedy crackling of an adolescent boy, and impressed upon her the image of a stuttering Dipper on helium.

 

They all sounded to be chattering amongst themselves, the drunken old man and Stan seeming to argue over something in relation to the phone. Ford and the shrill boy sounded as though they were attempting to break it up, and failing miserably.

 

“Family… s-stupid…” a belch, “my ass…”

 

“Take… Back!”

 

A rustling sound. “Stop! R-ri- y-y-you! You _s-stop it!_ ”

 

Profanities were exchanged as a sound like crinkling paper came from the phone.

 

“Sorry about that.”

 

Mabel sighed in relief. “Great Uncle Ford! What's going on over there?” She blanched as the shouting on the other end drowned out the beginning of Ford’s reply. “Are you and Grunkle Stan ok?”

 

“It’s alright, I assure you.” She could picture him adjusting his glasses. “Just some acquaintances from my interdimensional travels. One of them is drunk and the other is… nevermind. They're decent people, if a bit odd. Interdimensional excursions can do th- oh. _Oh_. My apologies. I've gone off on a tangent, haven't I?”

 

“Not at all, Great Uncle Ford.”

 

He huffed, a sound somewhere between humor and indignation. “Nonsense, my girl. What can I do for you?”

 

Mabel curled a lock of hair around her finger and fiddled with it some. “I probably should have called you earlier,” she admitted, “but something’s wrong with Dipper. I think it's magic.”

 

“Oh?” The bickering of the other passengers on the ship sounded to be reaching a crescendo. Ford hushed them gruffly. She could hear more crinkling and a scratching sound like pen on paper before her uncle continued. “What’s the matter? Is he alright?”

 

Resisting the urge to sigh and say, ‘no, he’s just peachy,’ Mabel took a deep breath and instead replied; “His teeth fell out, or they started to anyway, and he was bleeding really bad. He's been having _awful_ night terrors that don't make sense. We tried tying him down at night so he wouldn't hurt himself but that just made him panic more and he got out anyways. I think he went into the Mindscape by accident, and he started seeing something called ‘s’more-pull.’ I could see him before but now he’s vanished.”

 

There was a long pause. Even the bickering ceased entirely, the only sound being the tap-scritch-tap of rushed, scrawling writing.

 

Unsettled by the silence, Mabel followed her first instinct- break it. “Is- is it magic, Great Uncle Ford? Can you fix it? Or tell me how?”

 

“Mabel, I need you to listen to me _very carefully._ ” His voice was grave. The other men on the ship murmured and grumbled in the background, but did not continue to argue. “I haven't much time to look at the work of demons on the modern world since… You know. Lots to care for at sea, more immediate threats and such- however; I _have_ had experience in other dimensions. What is ‘s’more-pull’ and how did he describe it?”

 

Color drained from Mabel’s face. “He said it was like, a sixth sense. Like, that supernatural ‘SSP’, or something. He didn't seem to recognize me at first, but then said he knew who I was.”

 

“ESP,” Ford corrected. “ _Fascinating_. I have no solid idea as to what this is but I advise you track him down and keep a close eye on him. Try to observe as much as you can. It’s most definitely malevolent in nature, be it a curse or a disease or anything else. Call Stanley again when you find out more.”

 

Scratch, beep click. He hung up and left Mabel staring dumbly at the phone display, despair etched onto her features. She was tempted to cry now that no one was here, and indeed it was a tantalizing prospect, but she hushed the urge. Dipper would not want her to cry, she told herself. Perhaps he was indeed hovering in the vicinity, out of her sight, though Mabel quite distinctly doubted that, as he would have possessed a household object by now if that were so.

 

That being the case, it was safe to say that Dipper was not alright. He had dropped hard onto his back with his arm twisted beneath him at a sickening angle, and would no doubt be in serious pain upon returning to physicality.

 

And he _would_ return to the world of the awake and alive. He _had to._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayee now this was a long time coming  
> Bit disappointed with the quality of this chapter but I want to upload more frequently and it may be inevitable to sacrifice my perfectionism for quicker chapters!  
> Hope you enjoy <3


	8. Kiss and Swallow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last Time: Dipper bonds with his Flock, gets to know himself, and is vaguely disgusted by what he finds. Meanwhile, Mabel does her best to tend to their unconscious mother and wrestle with her own doubts.
> 
> Vague disgust becomes something more.

Mabel, not knowing what else to do but wait for her brother to return, took advantage of her solitude. She changed into her nightdress and curled up on the sofa with a huge bowl of cheap, sugary cereal, knees tucked tight against her chest and swaddled in blankets that were usually only decorative.

 

There was no sign of Dipper.

 

#

 

Dipper didn't know how long he’d been out in the Mindscape, but he was awoken by the panicked bleating of his Flock, and something feral bubbled to the surface; an intense feeling of _mine_ and _not yours_ and _if you so much as touch what belongs to me I will tear your throat out._

 

This place, as the sheep had explained to him, was Dipper’s land now. He’d gathered that it had once belonged to Bill Cipher, which made sense. Bill had died during Weirdmageddon and Dipper had played a pivotal part in taking him out, so it was his now. He knew very little of demonic hierarchy, but it seemed that if one could beat another, everything that belonged to it was passed on.

 

That being said, something was invading Dipper’s new territory.

 

He didn't know how it was, but he sensed the demon’s presence before he saw or heard it. A scent of rot and death carried in the air on its breath, and a cocktail of bruising rage and hunger filled his vision from its skin. The thing was dark and sickening, leathery hide covered in pulsing blisters and tiny, gnashing mouths. It had more arms than Dipper cared to count, and five unblinking eyes.

 

Dipper fulfilled his duty to the Flock without a second thought. His small army of wooly beasts was in tight formation behind him as he pelted at full speed towards the lovecraftian horror of a demon. Groknar surged ahead and made contact first, sinking his fangs deep into the monster’s leg. Teeth and Grazer each leapt for an arm, clamping down with their mouths and tearing those awful arms from their sockets. Horace and Darcrack bellowed deep in their chests and circled the beast, gnashing their teeth at its flanks.

 

Without a weapon, Dipper hesitated a moment, until the abomination tossed one of his sheep hard into the ground, and that feral possessiveness was renewed in his chest. He didn't even think to will one into existence, so consumed he was by his rage. _How dare you touch what is MINE?_

 

He bared his teeth, a snarl ripping from his throat, and leapt into the fray. His blunt fingers dug furrows into the creature’s soft belly, dull teeth closing on the monster’s neck as he tossed his head and clawed at the thing with a furor.o Despite his initial ferocity, Dipper’s fingers scrabbled uselessly against the monster’s leathery hide, and he was shaken back and forth by one of its many arms. That would not do.

 

Dipper was in this Mindscape and this was his and _no one else’s_. He roared from deep in his throat, rallying his Flock around him and rolling across the grass. They cut through the monster’s armor like butter, but it wasn't quite enough as the massive abomination bucked and screamed, spitting and baring an impressive set of fangs. Dipper could match that.

 

Crying out, the boy dove to the side as one of the abomination’s many fists came down. He bolted to the very edge of the woods, finding the sharp stick he’d dropped when fighting off the demon pigs. The makeshift weapon would do; Dipper’s nightmares couldn't hold the monster off forever. That being the case, he whirled around, the spear held low and pointed at the creature’s soft neck.

 

All it took was one adrenaline-fueled leap for Dipper to drive the sharp end of the stick through the monster’s throat. It gurgled horridly, crumpling to the ground and grasping desperately at the spear as though that might save it. Mixed horror and pride filled Dipper as the monster wailed, long and sorrowful, whimpering and rolling in agony. The grass was stained with hot black blood.

 

The monster was no less grotesque in death. Dipper nudged the corpse with a bare toe, shuddering. Just between its shoulder blades, the monster’s bones seemed to diverge into two separate spinal cords, which went down parallel until they seemed to connect and coil around one another at the arch of its back in a thick bump before melding together again.

 

Just as he made to turn away, something glowed in the monster’s unmoving chest. It cast a sickly green light across the faces of Dipper and his nightmares. His mouth watered. Despite his horror at the act, Dipper curled his fingers into the creature’s lopsided chest, and pulled. It tore open with a squelch and a pop as brittle ribs gave way easily beneath the boy’s hands.

 

An oil-slick orb of green hovered just below the swollen heart of the demon. Dipper cupped his hands around it, lifting it from the chest cavity. Strings of green snapped as it was pulled away from its host.

 

The Flock glanced expectantly between their master and the kill. He nodded solemnly, and at once the group of nightmares descended upon the corpse, tearing hunks of flesh away with their teeth only to swallow them whole and repeat the process once more, like starved dogs.

 

Dipper, meanwhile, stared down at the cooling orb- a soul- in his hands. It was disgusting and sad and monstrous of him but sweet starts did it feel _right_. He licked his lips, hesitated, and popped it into his mouth.

 

He’d never felt so alive.

 

#

 

Anna did not seem to be terribly disturbed by the hot light of the television, nor the sounds it made as Mabel flipped through mindless sitcoms and reality shows in an attempt to distract herself from the situation at hand. Not even her favorite talk shows could keep her eyes from growing wet with despair, but she did not allow herself to cry, because Dipper must be trying his best, and he wouldn't like to see her being so sad.

 

She made several trips to refill her Crispy Crunch cereal without her mother stirring, even when she nearly tripped over the woman on the way to the toilet and noisily stomped the box flat to be deposited in the recycling once she’d finally finished the entirety of its grossly sugary contents.

 

At length, Anna did indeed wake, albeit unwillingly and with much fussing over her sore back after laying on the hard floor for several hours. She turned to see Mabel huddled on the couch like a small child, round little face bathed in an eerie red light from the fast food commercial on the television. Her brown eyes seemed rimmed in red and shiny, as though she’d been crying.

 

“Mabel, honey?” Slowly, she sat up and got to her feet, leaning heavily on the sofa as she shook out her stiff limbs. “Are you okay? Where’s your brother?”

 

Upon hearing her mother’s question, Mabel tensed. It was a near-imperceptible twitch of her shoulders, a tiny little jump, but it said everything she couldn't bring herself to voice. “Dipper hasn't come back yet,” she admitted, curling closer upon herself at the thought. “I've been waiting, but he’ll come around soon. He’s _gotta_.”

 

Frowning, Anna leaned closer and stroked her daughter’s hair soothingly. “Waiting, sweetheart? How long?”

 

“A few hours,” replied Mabel. “It’s only seven-thirty right now.”

 

Her mother sighed, very deeply, and seemed tired despite her long rest. “Why don't you go up to your room, Mabel? Dad won't be home for an hour or so, and I’ll take care of him.” She gave a reassuring smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. “You seem to know more about it than me, and you don't seem too worried, so please. Go upstairs and finish your schoolwork. Go to sleep, and we’ll make sure Daddy knows everything tomorrow morning. We’ll find your brother.”

 

Mabel pouted a little, but reluctantly nodded and trudged up the stairs and down the hall, to the room she and Dipper still insisted on sharing, despite the protests of their parents that boys and girls should have a little personal space at this age.

 

Its arrangement was not unlike that of the attic in the Mystery Shack. Dipper’s bed remained tucked against the nearest wall, crowded with old blankets, laundry and books in haphazard scatterings over the powder blue sheets and on the floor. Mabel’s bed lay across the room, against the far wall in the same manner, albeit much neater.

 

A nightstand beneath the window doubled as a bookshelf and a jewelry stand, and a shelf above the headboard displayed the tooth of a dinosaur they’d fought in Gravity Falls, along with a vial of unicorn blood, binoculars, a compass and a little candle-powered lantern, among other souvenirs of their excursions in the Falls. The sloping part of the ceiling was tacked with Ghost Harassers and Fight Fighters posters, along with a mess of sticky notes and red thread and boy band merchandise.

 

Mabel’s side of the room, clearly defined by her penchant for neon colors, was nearly the opposite to her brother’s. A poofy, pink comforter marked with pastel-colored dinosaurs and flowers drew stark contrast to Dipper’s plain slate sheets, and her bed was piled high with a multitudinous crowd of pillows and stuffed animals alike to ensure the best, most soft and snuggly nest a person could ask for. A desk with a lamp and many stickers over its surface served as her arts and craft station.

 

Ironically, while his own side was an absolute sty, Dipper had an annoying penchant for cleaning and rearranging Mabel’s things. Paints and crayons and colorful earrings and sweaters were easier to organize, he reasoned, so he would stubbornly rearrange Mabel’s collection of artist’s pastels at least once a month according to their particular hue.

 

This habit resulted in Mabel’s portion of the room appearing significantly less sloppy than Dipper’s, though neither twin particularly minded the difference in lifestyle.

 

It was this evening, however, that the sight of Dipper’s messy space sent an ache through her chest. Lethargically, Mabel pulled herself into bed and wriggled deep inside her blankets. She closed her eyes and willed herself to sleep, in the hope of easing the exhaustion and despair of the day.

 

She awoke at around one in the morning upon hearing a loud sound. It was a thud, the kind that was deep and clipped as though someone had fallen from bed. The noise did not go quiet, though, and scraping and clattering shook the stair rail as Mabel tiptoed out of bed in order to investigate. She padded lightly down the steps, the floorboards cold beneath her feet, and shuffled as quietly as she could into the kitchen.

 

Her heart dropped to her feet, and her stomach rose up to fill her choked throat with horror at what she saw there-- The blurred figure of a thin little boy sat, crouched, on the peachy tile of the kitchen floor. His spindly arms were bent up into the silverware drawer, trembling fingers curled tightly over the edge as he pawed shakily through its contents.

 

“Dipper?” Mabel whispered hoarsely. “What are you _doing_?”

 

The boy straightened abruptly, rattling the drawer as he jumped. His already-blurry form flickered once, twice, and then he disappeared once again without even turning around.

 

This time, Mabel found anger. “Dipper!” She slammed the drawer shut with a little more force than was due, skidding to her knees where her brother once sat. The air was several degrees colder in the spot, but otherwise showed no sign of his ever being there. Frustrated tears rimmed Mabel’s eyes as she leapt up the steps to the bedroom.

 

Throwing the door open, Mabel blanched at the sight of her brother standing at the window with his back to her, the silhouette of his greasy curls bobbing in time to heaving breaths casting warped shadows down across the floor.

 

His thin shoulders were shaking.

 

“Dipper?” asked Mabel, softer this time. “Bro? Are you okay?”

 

It pained her to watch him flinch at the sound of her voice. “No.͜”

 

Panic bloomed in her chest. No. He’s not okay. Was he hurt? His voice was trembling. It broke, but never like this. Something protective unfurled within Mabel as she rushed forward, reaching for her brother’s shoulder to turn him around.

 

Dipper whirled on her, grinning like an asylum patient. Something black and thick dribbled down his chin. His eyes were dark and alien and sent horrified chills down Mabel’s back. She made to retreat, but his ragged nails dug into her arms before she could escape as he took her by the wrists and spun her around. He waltzed them in a quick circle, still grinning.

 

“I’m _fantastic_ , S͐̏̽HͦÒͬ͛ͭ͐͗̚O̡͂ͥ̓̈́͂T̨͆̊̉̎̽I̒N̵͆G͢ ̅̆̈̉ͣ͋Sͤ͂͟TÂ̐̉R̓͐ͩ́̕!”

 

Mabel wrenched away as Dipper’s grip loosened, grabbing a pair of safety scissors from the table and brandishing them at him. “What? B-Bill?”

 

Dipper’s face twitched, and he hesitated. He cocked his head to one side, very, very slowly, and blinked at her. His dark gaze was unreadable, but Mabel could see the corners of his eyes gleam with something wet, lips trembling.

 

“Oh my st́ar͟s͘,” Dipper whispered, sliding back onto his rump against the banister. He started giggling, something high and grating that sent a chill down Mabel’s spine. Her brother never giggled. He chuckled, or laughed, but never did he _giggle_. That was something that Bill did, though, so Mabel kept her scissors at the ready and edged closer.

 

Slowly, however, as she approached, Mabel saw that her brother’s heaving shoulders were actually from crying. He was sobbing now, knees tucked against his chest as he curled in on himself and wept. Dipper’s skin was still freezing, but she reached out and tapped him on the arm.

 

“Bro?”

He nodded shakily, diving forward and wrapping his icy arms around her. Mabel could feel cool, dry breath tickling her ear as he cried on her shoulder, hot tears stinging her neck against the cold. His hands were covered in something wet and sticky. She didn't ask what it was.

 

“I’m so sorry- I- we-- the sheep! They’re _mine_ , Mabel, they’re mine and not _his_ and I’m _different_! I swear I don't know what's happening, but Mab-M-Mabel I’m _scared_. I didn't mean to call you th- _that_ because that’s _him_ and not me except right now I don't know who _me_ is an-”

 

She covered his mouth with a hand, stroked his hair, and sighed.

 

“It’s okay, Dipper. Mystery Twins, remember?”

 

He wept into the crook of her neck until near morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aah damn I hope this wasn't too awful?? I feel like this is just bad writing now woops


	9. Meteorite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last Time: Dipper makes his first kill. Fueled by adrenaline, he approaches Mabel only for her to find that he's not all there. 
> 
> Perhaps the twins don't share everything after all...

Mabel crawled into bed and fell asleep sometime close to two or three in the morning, leaving Dipper alone with his traitorous thoughts. She, in the meantime, was out like a light, peacefully facedown on her pillow.

 

  
He ran his cold fingers through her hair, - quite literally - marveling at how each slender digit phased through each snarl of sweaty curls with hardly a breeze to disturb them. He sat, cross-legged, on the edge of the bed, (rather hovered an inch or two above it) and watched his sister’s chest rise and fall steadily with each breath.

 

  
She looked beautiful; her lips were pink and fair, and her cheeks were dusted with a pleasant, rosy blush. Her eyes were rimmed with red and puffy from crying beforehand, but the freckles splattering the skin of her cheeks only made her look more childish despite the tired creases beneath her eyes.

 

  
Dipper leaned forward over Mabel; if he were corporeal, his breath would be ruffling her hair now, so close he was to her face. He straddled the air over her unmoving hips as not to disturb her with his cold, and reached out with a shaking hand towards her smooth face. Something wistful battled with possessiveness, and for an instant, he hesitated. He blinked the fog from his eyes and shuddered a little. With a soft huff, the boy disengaged himself from his sister.

 

  
He drew further away with a sigh, and passed through the floor with hardly a thought. Anna was standing in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a phone pressed against her ear and a mug of coffee clutched close to her chest. Dipper recognized Miss Terry’s lilting voice through the speaker, even from a distance, and felt something tense in his gut. His mother looked impossibly tired; hair a frizzy, tangled mess, makeup smeared over her cheeks from sleeping and crying, and an expression of resigned despair cast on her face that sent little shivers down his back- he caused it.

 

  
Whether the sensation was from horror or pride was beyond his knowledge.

 

  
However, she couldn't see him, so there was no one to talk to now besides himself, or Mabel, but she was sound asleep and emotionally drained by what he’d done. It would still be some hours before the household arose and set off for the day, he knew, while his mother had an appointment to go to in approximately ten minutes, everyone else would sleep the extra two hours or so until six.

 

  
Unbidden, his thoughts very briefly turned to the Mindscape; the sheep there were a bit blunt and rather savage, but they were decent enough company, especially if one was feeling as isolated as Dipper was currently.

 

  
Spending some time in the company of his reverent, nightmarish Flock seemed appealing for only a moment as he remembered the way they’d stripped the kill to the bone in mere minutes like a pack of starving animals. Though, he supposed, and wiped his mouth, that after the kind of treatment they must have received from Bill, they more or less were.

 

  
It went unspoken that Dipper had been the one to drive the crude pike through the monster’s throat, and that was where it has happened. Where he’d literally devoured the life force of another living thing. That was another reason not to return to the Mindscape, at least until he could find out what on Earth was going on and what he was going to do about it. Mabel would not know until he was absolutely sure. She was stressed enough as it was. He would admit that, no, he wasn't above keeping little secrets from his twin, but this one itched and burned in his throat and his chest like a procession of fire ants.

 

  
Dipper needed closure, and he needed it sooner rather than later.

 

  
#

 

  
Mabel groaned and stumbled from her bed as her alarm clock cried out in shrill, insistent tones. She groped blindly through her haze of grogginess, smacking the dumb thing in a failed attempt to quiet it. She wandered into the bathroom to relieve herself and wash up. It was only halfway through gathering fresh clothes and a towel to shower that she realized, with horror, what had happened between Dipper and herself last night.

 

  
Swallowing past the aching lump in her throat, she called out softly. “Dipper? Where are you?”

 

  
“You’re going to be late for school,” he said thickly. Mabel spun around to see her brother’s ghostly form phasing up through the floor, lips pressed into a tight line and eyes shuttered with shame. He seemed to have wiped his face clean, but she could still see old blood blackening the corners of his mouth.

 

  
“That’s okay,” Mabel said, slowly, and stepped back to sit on her bed, patting the spot next to her.

 

  
Dipper remained unnervingly still, his trembling lips the only motion aside the gentle bobbing up and down in midair. “It’s really not.” His voice was heavy and tight with regret that made her heart ache. He wasn't talking about school.

 

  
Mabel pursed her lips and shifted in place. “Please, Dipper. Don't worry about me.”

 

  
“I can't help it, Mabes.”

 

  
They were silent for a long time. Mabel observed his face, looking so thin and guilty, and felt her stomach roll with discomfort. A lump rose in her throat. She could still see grime and blood caked beneath his ragged fingernails, arms hanging limply at his sides. She stared at his filthy hands for a long time, filling up the silence and trying not to think too hard about it.

 

  
“So,” she croaked, and felt her voice crackle and die in her throat. “Can you tell me what happened last night?” Mabel set her jaw, but avoided his eyes, training her gaze on his crooked teeth as his tense lips twitched. “I won't make you tell me if you're not okay with it, but I want to help you. I promise I won't be mad at you, no matter what.”

 

  
His voice was guarded and tainted with a quiet sort of vitriol that shook her to her bones. “It has to do with Bi- see, I don't want to hurt you. Again.” A pregnant pause swelled in the air until, at length, he added, “I’m sorry.”

 

  
“Don't be sorry, dummy.” She pouted at him playfully, and felt lightened to see that the corner of his mouth had twitched upwards into a smirk, however thickly veiled it was behind a mask of stone seriousness. “Is that all I’ll get out of you?”

 

  
Dipper shrugged. “For now.” His voice trembled and turned thin. “I don't know what it is, honestly. I'd rather figure out which way is up for myself before I lead you on.”

 

  
She narrowed her eyes slightly. “What about that whole Mystery Twins thing? We share everything.”

 

  
“No,” said Dipper again. His dark eyes were shiny as he raised an arm, hooking slender fingers on his lower lip even as they were tainted by warm, watered-down blood. “Not this.” He visibly shuddered, casting his gaze away in shame. “Not yet, anyway.” Froth coated the corners of his mouth, turning his fair lips ashen. “Please trust me, just for a little while.”

 

  
“Okay.” Mabel pouted at him in a semblance of thin playfulness. “I trust you.”

 

  
“What? You're not- aren't you mad?”

 

  
Mabel sighed through her mouth, giving a grim smile. “I could never _really_ be mad at you, dummy.” She gestured vaguely in his direction. “Besides, there's magic stuff everywhere now. It shouldn't be too surprising that something spooky like this would happen. It's like you to do your dumb nerd thing beforehand. I shouldn't have expected anything else, really.”

 

  
“But what about-” Frowning, he cut himself off. His expression turned sad, brow knit in worry as he lowered his head. “...you know.” Dipper sullenly pointed to the colorful cartoon star emblazoned on the front of Mabel’s hot pink sweater, laid out in a wrinkled mess over her bed and on top of a folded towel.

 

  
“You didn't mean it, did you?” She kept her voice soft and tender at the visage of quiet horror on her brother’s face.

 

  
At this, he shook his head vigorously. “Of course not; I didn-”

 

  
“Then it's okay. I can't claim to know what kind of nerd stuff is happening right now but you're sorry and that's what’s important.”

 

  
This was Dipper’s turn to smile without humor, though it came out more of a grimace than anything. There was a long pause before he spoke once more; “Honestly, we shouldn't have underestimated you-know-who.” His voice took on that level, carefully scientific quality that marked the gears turning in his head as he analyzed a situation. It warmed Mabel to see his earnest curiosity slip through, even with his broken teeth and saddened eyes. “He’s craftier than to let us best him and get away with it. Probably some kind of curse on me, or something. Revenge, and all that.”

 

  
Mabel sighed. “I’m going to go shower, okay? Don't use your ghosty powers to peek.”

 

  
“Puh-lease,” Dipper drawled, floating upside down over her head to grin in her face. “I've seen you plenty of times.”

 

  
“Not recently,” pointed out Mabel, scooping up her linens and making her way down the hall to the bathroom. “Speaking of ghosty floaty things happening, have you turned solid again yet?”

 

  
“Nope,” he admitted with a note of remorse. “I've started to get used to it, obviously, I'm not panicking any longer, but I'd rather get back onto the physical plane of existence sooner rather than later.” Dipper sighed a little. “Mom couldn't see me, so I really am like a ghost. Must be a twin thing that you can, but even twins can get sick of each other after a while.” He shuddered, rubbing his arms. “I'd hate to be like this forever. I can't even pick up a fork.”

 

  
Mabel frowned and closed the door behind her. Unphased, her brother passed right through it. She closed the toilet lid and placed her clothes on its pale surface, turning around and hitting the tap in the shower so the water would get warm. “Don't think like that,” she chastised him, pulling her purple nightgown up over her head. “Everything will be fine. Mystery Twins, huh?”

 

  
Dipper huffed a little, more wistful than irritated. “You're right, as usual.”

 

  
His sister put her hands on her hips and puffed her chest out proudly. “Of course I am!” She crowed.

 

  
In response, Dipper, ever the gentleman, rolled his eyes. “Not _all_ the time,” he mumbled, crossing his arms. Mabel laughed for the first time in a while, careless and happy. A warmth bloomed in his chest as she finished disrobing and, giggling, stepped into the spray of the shower.

 

  
Mabel washed, dried and dressed herself, tying her damp hair into a loose ponytail as she hopped down the stairs, two at a time. Her brother hovered over her, offering cynical, vaguely reassuring commentary to her morning. They were out of cereal on account of her distressed late-night binge, so Mabel would have to make do with some toast. With lots and lots of butter, cinnamon and sugar sprinkled over the top. She scarfed her sweet breakfast despite Dipper’s insistence that it would have been perfectly acceptable without so much sweetener.

 

  
“Hurry,” Dipper told her, and poked her arm with freezing fingers. “That God-awful breakfast better make you run quickly; you’ll miss more than just morning assembly if you don't get moving!”

 

  
Mabel sputtered and kicked off the pavement into a sprint. She tore over the grassy park, swerved into the intersection and nearly ran headlong into a parked car as she pelted down the street towards the school. She stumbled to their homeroom, her brother floating close behind. It was, quite frankly, a miracle that Mabel hadn't collided with any other students or faculty as she rushed through the hallway, and that she'd made it to school reasonably on time. She had missed morning announcements, but those were trivial things. At least her tardiness wouldn't cut into class time.

 

  
Cheekily, Dipper trailed Mabel into her first period class, passing through the door as she closed it behind her and settling to hover behind her chair and look down on her working. The professor, a raisin-faced, strict old woman, called the class to attention as Mabel shuffled awkwardly into her seat. She tutted and brandished a stack of papers, passing one to everyone in the class.

 

  
“Pop quiz!” Mabel complained in a stage whisper, dropping her head dramatically down onto the table. “I didn't study!”

 

  
Her brother was looking at her very, very intently. ‘What?’ She mouthed at him, and he grinned like a shark; something wicked and mischievous and just a little too wide for his face. Mabel could see that his gums were still bleeding, one lower incisor dangling by mere threads of tissue. It looked like more teeth were growing in to replace them, but Mabel was fairly sure Dipper had all of his adult teeth already. They looked sharp.

 

  
“The Potsdam declaration was _before_ VJ Day,” Dipper supplied in a voice like hushed velvet. “And the Reichstag is like German congress, not a king.”

 

  
Mabel didn't like it one bit, the way his eyes gleamed with a tame sort of malice, the fact that he was doing this. Her brother was all about good, honest study skills. The fact that, for all intents and purposes, he was helping her to cheat, set an iron snake of worry coiled in her gut. Malice, however tame it may have been, was bad intent nonetheless.

 

  
Regardless, she wrote down the answers as he supplied them and wordlessly passed in her quiz, struggling to ignore the worry gnawing at her gut. Mabel was very nearly tempted to call him on it right then and there, but something stopped her. She trusted Dipper. He was her other half, her best friend, and her only brother. They were the Mystery Twins.

 

  
If Dipper was hiding something from her, Mabel figured, he must have a very good reason. Ever the drama queen, he got all worked up and bothered over little things before; he could very well be blowing this out of proportion. Perhaps, and this was quite possible, there was nothing to worry about, and everything would blow over. That made sense to Mabel in a lot of ways as she gathered her things and made for the next period.

 

  
Yes, she thought, of course things would be alright. They were the Mystery Twins. The only ones in the world, and they stuck together through thick and thin. They shared everything, and how lucky Mabel was to have had a brother that had stuck by her side and come to her rescue, even after her horrible selfishness had caused-

 

  
Oh. She stopped short in her tracks, nearly dropping her books as the throng of students continued to move around her. Dipper gave her a questioning look, one eyebrow arched and mouth pulled into a little fey frown. Mabel paid him no mind.

 

  
Had Mabel ever told anyone about what had happened with the rift? Not even Dipper? She wracked her brain for recollection, but while that awful event was starkly vivid and heavy in her chest, she could not remember whether or not she’d ever said anything to anyone about the specifics. Obviously, everyone knew that Bill had gotten his little hands on the rift, but Mabel didn't recall having ever mentioned that she had been the one to hand the thing over in person.

 

  
For the first time in months, the weight of guilt settled in Mabel’s stomach like lead. She said nothing and moved to her next period. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unhappy with this chapter  
> If there are any errors in consistency please let me know because I'm a tired bean and I can't read this any more orz


	10. Denial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disgusting.

Waves of tantalizing horror rolled from Mabel as Dipper trailed her down the hall. Her aura was suffocatingly thick with a color for which he had no name that spiraled around her head, maud, stark and slick like oil. Speckles of pungent citrus fear, laced heavily with the baby blue musk of concern, peppered the air around her like stardust and made hunger gnaw at Dipper’s insides.

 

Dipper was able to sense intermittent blotches of smorple and something his gut said was grorange in the air around her, but most of the sensations before him were beyond his understanding. Instinctively, he knew that most of them were not pleasant.

 

Mabel wasn’t speaking to him and Dipper wasn't sure if he’d done something wrong, or if she’d just rather not be thought a lunatic by her peers for talking to thin air. His sister being the type not to care for what others thought, at least most of the time, he had the creeping feeling that she was unhappy with him.

 

In all honesty, he hadn't ever considered the idea that an entity- spirit, ghost, or stars forbid, a demon- could feel ill the way he was currently.

 

( _You’re in denial,_ and Dipper bit his lip to keep from shouting a venomous retort.)

Hunger gnawed at his nauseous stomach, mouth slick as pressure built beneath his jaw. Dipper cringed, audibly groaning as the discomfort, which he'd just begun to become accustomed to, spiked severely. He stopped trailing Mabel, hands going to massage his temples as pain wracked his body, like shards of ice being inserted into the stem of his brain.

 

She didn't even turn around.

Something like resentment boiled in Dipper’s traitorous gut, but he stomped it out and bit his tongue, moving a little more hastily to catch up with his sister. Because she seemed so displeased with his assistance during first period, he kept his mouth shut as they entered the next classroom. On occasion, Mabel’s warm hazel eyes would flit up to meet him, but she only seemed to be examining him, almost clinically. She refused to meet his gaze, and that made Dipper’s heart ache.

 

He grimaced, baring broken teeth, and turned away in shame. Mabel just kept on staring down at her work. Dipper watched her write, curly script spilling from her pen, elegant even for the hearts that topped each of her ‘i’s and ‘j’s. Each of the words spun before his eyes, twisting and breaking over like white-capped waves on the paper, now Yiddish, ancient Sumerian, Basque and Hmong.

 

A hundred languages breached across the page, smudged by Mabel’s wrist but clear as day, some kind of intrinsic instinctual fluency bursting from the foreign corners of Dipper’s brain. The sight of the red correcting ink made his stomach churn. He felt lightheaded, but when he blinked the hallucination was over, leaving him gasping and feeling even worse than before.

 

Mabel was trying her hardest to ignore him, he could tell, but her aura tasted bitter and Dipper knew she was regretful and concerned as soon as the scent of margaritas and horsehide filled his awareness. He smiled at her in a way that was meant to be reassuring, but was fairly certain that it'd come out as more of a grimace than anything else.

 

Dipper felt claustrophobic, a tightness clenching in his chest and deafening pressure building at the base of his skull. He could feel the stem of his brain throbbing inside his head, each pulse of blood intensifying the ache that wracked him.

 

“I need some air,” he choked, even though ghosts (demons) didn't need to breathe, so neither did he, but Mabel nodded, a nigh-imperceptible act, and continued to hunch over her work. He floated away through the wall, grimacing and hissing through his teeth as the bright sun flashed in his oversensitive eyes. Dipper felt a lower premolar crumble against his tongue, growling deep in his throat as he spat the fragments away.

 

He wiped the blood from his chin with a forearm, sighing and hovering low against the building. It was a beautiful day, he thought, especially vibrant and stark to him; the trees thick with color and speckling the grass with sunlight that dropped between their leaves, the veins and notches in the stems and bark clear as day. A sparse mat of tangled dandelions and creeping weeds grew in patchy intervals throughout the unkempt field behind the school. Yes, quite beautiful, even if the sunlight made his nose itch and eyes sting, and everything was just a little too sharp.

 

Now that he no longer felt so panicked and claustrophobic, and had taken in the open space around him, Dipper was once again reminded of his discomfort. The taste of copper in his mouth made him feel at once excited and ill. Dipper rubbed his aching jaw. He didn't know what to make of that, and anxiety fell like a block of ice in his gut.

 

He licked his dry lips and stared pointedly down at the ants on the ground. Their dim black eyes stared, unblinking and cynical, onwards through the grass as they carried crumbs and blades of grass. His fingers twitched as he leaned down. How satisfying it would be to crush their plump bodies between his thumb and forefinger, the desire choked Dipper and sent a shudder of twisted pleasure down his spine at the mere thought. His mouth grew slick, hands trembling as he backed away, palms cupped against his mouth. The ants remained undisturbed. A sparrow cried from somewhere across the park, voice sharp as glass.

 

Dipper was able to identify this desire as a need for control, which was reasonable, he told himself. This situation was horrible and insane and so far beyond him it made him shake to think too deeply about it. That was reasonable. It was natural to seek solace, relief. Something to counteract the helplessness he felt, that was what he needed. What could possibly be sweeter than domain over the lives of exceedingly infinitesimal lesser beings?

 

The thought set Dipper’s empty chest skipping.

 

( _An ant now, next a squirrel. A dog. A person. Pull yourself together, kid. What would Mabel think?_ )

 

He choked on his own breath and took off as fast as he could back to his house.

 

 


	11. Lolonja

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I'm you, after all._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the long wait! Writer's block and school had a nightmare child together...

Mabel arrived home and had not yet encountered any sign of Dipper. She could hear the clinking of dishes in the sink as her father navigated the kitchen, and the buzz of the dishwasher overlaid with the chattering of the radio on the counter, but no trace of her brother anywhere.

  
  


Meekly, she deposited her backpack on the floor just inside the doorway and poked her head into the kitchen.

  
  


“Hi, daddo,” said Mabel.

  
  


Without missing a beat, her father replied. “Hey there, Mabelangelo.” His gaze was soft and creased with worry as he turned away from the sink. “Are you feeling alright? Is your brother with you?”

  
  


Frowning, Mabel shook her head. “No,” she admitted, and sat herself down at the kitchen table. “I haven’t seen him since this morning. He said he felt sick and needed to step out. I think he ended up heading home early.”

  
  


Mark sighed. “I don’t think that’s all. Is it?” He pulled a chair out for himself and steepled his fingers on the table. “You know you can talk to me about anything. I’m your dad; anything at all. You know that, my little peep?”

  
  


The sound of her father’s soothing voice and sight of his soft smile put Mabel at ease, to some extent. “Yeah.” She smiled a weak, watery thing, and shrugged. “Dipper’s been weird lately. Kind of not himself,” admitted Mabel. “But I think he’s just tired and sick still.”

  
  


Arching an eyebrow, Mark frowned, crossing his arms over his chest.

  
  


“Mom talked to you, huh?” At a nod from her father, Mabel took a breath and began; “It’s all this supernatural crapola, dad. Dipper’s having a hard time cause he turned into a- not a ghost, I guess, but he’s invisible. Only I can see him ‘cause we’re twins, yeah?”

  
  


Mark nodded slowly, brow furrowed. “I’m not entirely sure I understand, but go on.”

  
  


“Well, we think that’s what’s been makin’ him so sick.” Mabel admitted, picking absently at one of the scabs on her fingers from her ill-fated attempt to sew (as much as it pained her, yarn and needles were not quite suited to the precision needed for such an undertaking) tiny fairy clothes during arts block. “I called Grunkle Ford; the scientist one-” Mabel clarified at the vaguely bewildered expression on her father’s face as he attempted to relearn which Stan was which- “and he said he’d look into it, but he hasn’t sent any word back so I guess he’s just as stumped as we are.”

  
  


“I see,” said Mark, expression softening further. “Don’t worry, Mabel-bean. How’s about this coming weekend we drive up there and see if your Grunkles can figure something out in person?”

  
  


Mabel gave a watery smile. “That’s a good idea, dad, but I don’t think we can do it right away,” her mouth was pinched into a thin line as she explained, “They’re out on a boat with some of Grunkle Ford’s space-adventure-buddies, researching nerd stuff and fighting monsters. They’re pretty far away…” She trailed off, rubbing one arm and sighing.

  
  


Her father seemed to understand. “So we’d have to wait for them to come home, huh?”

  
  


“Yup.” Mabel’s downcast expression was too much for Mark to bear as she mumbled under her breath, “I wish _Dipper_ would come home.”

  
  


“Hey, Mabel-bean?”

  
  


She looked up, gaze expectant. “Yeah, daddo?” The trembling of her voice made his heart ache.

  
  


“Why don’t we make some of those raisin cookies your brother likes, so he has something nice when he gets here? I’ll bet he’s taking some time for himself to relax and have some quiet time, and I’m sure he’ll be delighted that we thought of him.”

  
  


Mabel’s round face lit up like a beacon, a thousand-watt smile stretching her mouth till it could grow no further. She slid from the chair and bounced to begin gathering ingredients. Mark smiled lightly and followed her lead, pushing the niggling worry in the back of his mind away.

  
  


#

 

Dipper was very, very glad that he was currently floating someplace between the physical plane and the emptiness just beyond it, because if he hadn’t been he was quite sure he would have done something he’d regret terribly by this point. Without access to the land of the living proper, he was prevented from throttling any of the tired-looking students among the throng that shuffled out the door that afternoon. He felt ill at the urge, but couldn’t bring himself to stamp it out. Or wouldn’t, perhaps.

  
  


He’d meant to head straight home. He really had.

  
  


He spat up a tooth, choking on his own saliva as another one fell loose and crumbled in the palm of his hand. Dipper made a mental note to see if the physical deterioration -- he was deteriorating, most definitely -- was connected to the psychological. Either way, this was bad news. He wiped his mouth, tonguing the bitter shards of enamel that still clung to his chapped lips. 

  
  


This was indescribably terrible. He had no idea how or why this was happening to him besides a hunch that it was related to Bill. Dipper was losing his marbles, going crazy! He had to be -- would he, in his right mind, take such twisted pleasure in fantasies of murder? 

  
  


No. 

  
  
  


At least, he didn’t think so. 

  
  


But why was he so calm? In his right mind, alert and in good health, he would be panicking; as would any other reasonable human being, but for some reason he was not. Tranquility sat over him like a heavy blanket, like someone had tossed a woolen duvet over his brain that dulled his inhibitions and pumped him full of ideas that were his own, but also weren’t.

  
  


This was so, terribly, unimaginably bad. He knew this, not a hunch or a suspicion, but a doubtless fact. Probably. Yes, this was almost certainly an abysmal situation to be in.

  
  


Perhaps...

  
  


_ The Flock _ , a familiar voice supplied tinnily, its drawling tone bouncing raucously around the inside of DIpper’s skull. He stifled the urge to smile even as he shivered at its presence. Someone else was in his head.

  
  


But he had to take things one at a time or nothing would get done, so he refocused his attention on the task at hand. The Flock seemed to know quite a bit more than he. They of all… people, he supposed, would know what to do.

  
  


So he sighed through his nose and let something, a part of him at once new and ingrained deeply in his being, take the reins as he slipped beyond the veil.

  
  


Dipper was greeted by the fey red eyes of a nightmare ewe.

  
  


“ **The m-master is here!** ” She cried, and suddenly a multitude of sheep appeared from the tall, grey grass. They all circled round him, heads low and trembling.

  
  


He couldn’t help but feel a little uneasy. “I suppose I am,” he conceded, and bent down to the first of the lambs to speak to her directly. “Which one are you again?” Every last one of the nightmares froze in place, ears splaying back as they inched nervously away.

  
  


The ewe’s bulbous eyes darted nervously towards her hooves as Dipper drew nearer. “ **Yours, Master. My g-greatest apologies-- we did not mean to d-disrespect you!** ”

  
  


Dipper’s discomfort must have shown on his face, he realized. He straightened himself and frowned. “No, no,” he soothed lamely, “I’m glad you’re all… eager to see me. That’s what that was, yeah?”

  
  


A wordless nod. She shook her head much too quickly and sharply to be honest about it.

  
  


“You’ve got nothing to worry about.” He smiled faintly. “I gather Bill treated you badly, but I’m not the same.” The nightmares seemed to collectively quail at the mention of their old master’s name. Dipper swore the nearest ewe paled beneath her ebony wool. “Old habits die hard,” he let his smile grow a little. “But you don’t need to fear me. That’s not what I do.”

  
  


A ram who looked burly beneath his thick mane of wool spoke next. “ _ So, _ ” he began tentatively, “ _ our fear…  _ dis _ pleases you, master? _ ”

  
  


“That’s right,” said Dipper, softly. He turned to the ewe once more. “Let’s try this one again, shall we?” She nodded meekly. “What’s your name again? I’ve not gotten them all straight yet.”

  
  


“ **Lolonja,** ” she supplied in a watery voice. “ **I am Lolonja, Master.** ”

  
  


There was improvement here, but not enough for his liking. “By the way,” said Dipper, “while we’re doing introductions; my name’s Dipper. You don’t have to do all of this ‘master’ business.” Something in his belly squirmed in displeasure at his denial of the title, but he ignored it in favor of gauging the sheep’s reaction.

  
  


They seemed to mill about for a long moment, a commotion of bewildered bleating and pawing of hooves in the dirt. The nightmares seemed confused, and uncomfortable.

  
  


“Let me restate that,” said Dipper, stuffing his hands awkwardly into the pockets of his cargo shorts. “You don’t have to call me that if you don’t want to. ‘Master,’ I mean. Just Dipper’s fine-- unless that’s weird. It’s probably weird. Just know,” he wet his lips and let his gaze slide over the flock. “It’s an option, I guess.”

  
  


It felt like less than ten sheep had a hundred eyes, all afraid and without understanding turned his way. Some of them, though, with their eldritch limbs and steak-knife teeth, might have reasonably had so many. There was a long silence before something clicked in Dipper’s mind.

  
  


“It’s not a trap,” he assured, “or a test. You can call me whatever you want; you won’t be punished. Not by me.”

  
  


As sick as it was, their fear brought warm pleasure to the bottom of his belly. He was piecing things together, bit by bit, and figured that this must have been something he inherited from Bill, somehow, during the explosion that marked the end of the dream demon’s brief reign-- the Transcendence. Despite this, something in Dipper squirmed uneasily at their fearful reverence.

  
  


_ Nervous? That’s okay. _

  
  


Dipper bit his lip, growing still save the gentle bobbing of his body in midair.

  
  


_ I know it feels wrong to be like this. Are you afraid? _

  
  


Refusing to justify the voice with a response, Dipper turned his eyes to the iridescent gleam of the nearest nightmare’s wool. It looked like oil.

  
  


_ Hold onto that feeling, kid. _

  
  


A long pause.

  
  


_ It’ll be your best friend soon enough.  _

  
  


_ Ţr̴͕̣̣u̜̹̜̝s̩̝t́ ̜̮ṃ͇̖͈̙͖̦e̞͙.̯͔̟̠ _


	12. Cod Fish, Cod Fish!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don't talk. Don't tell. Don't talk. 
> 
> Don't trust.

One moment, Dipper was floating with his ashy, tattered tennis shoes being brushed by soft blades of teal-grey grass in his Mindscape, with the soft rustle of the foliage and the creaking of the nearby trees a soothing sort of static to his ears; but the next, he felt himself being violently tugged from where he hovered. He groped blindly for something to say, and called out, “Lolonja!” Before the soothing haze of the field was yanked out from under him.

  


His vision swam. He could hear metal and wood shudder and quake, the world tipping precariously to one side before flopping carelessly upright once again. Something cold and wet struck Dipper’s face, and as he blinked to clear his eyes he could see the whitecaps on the grey ocean in the distance. The wind spooned up great sprays of foam that lashed his numb cheeks, drenching him.

  


The sting of the water in his eyes drew a sound someplace between a gasp and a chuckle. The bitter wind tore at his clothes, the brine hissed at him, and for the first time in so many days, Dipper felt most entirely alive. He felt present, and real, and it sent warm shudders of pleasure up from his belly.

  


“This sure beats being stuck in l̡im͠bo̸!” He crowed to no one in particular, and leaned to peer over the gunnel. The ocean spat in his face. Dipper spat back, a stream of freshly acquired salt water from between pursed lips, cackling gleefully.

  


Once his laughter was spent, Dipper turned to inspect the deck behind him. His heart did a funny little jig upon seeing his great-uncles standing, thoroughly soaked through their rain slickers and caps, both wearing twin expressions of bewilderment.

 

Their colors were mixed; Stan was orbited by great whorls of taffy relief and baby blue concern that smothered the bruise-like shades of fear that made Dipper's mouth water despite himself. Ford, on the other hand, was so saturated with bitter resentment and that sickly sweet fear that Dipper almost wanted to gag. There was some kind of half-lust sputtering beneath the horror, but it tasted rotten, like milk left to spoil; the remnants of an ill-conceived love. His heart ached at the implication.

  


Dipper blinked away what he was Seeing and frowned, turning his gaze down to the floor beneath him. A summoning circle of some kind was painted onto the metal surface of the deck. There was a dead fish-- _Arctic Cod_ , Dipper knew,  in the middle, charred and smoking slightly. Had he done that?

  


The ship growled in disapproval as a raucous wave slapped her stern; a wave of white foam crawled forward on its belly, stretching with bated breath as the vessel bobbed like a cork in a bottle. The water washed its way across the deck, electing to pull the fish with it. The cod flopped lamely over the side. He could hear it smack the water with a _crack-plop_ , loud enough to make itself known over the roaring of the waves.

  


Dipper took advantage of the poor fish’s sudden absence to steal another look at the circle beneath him. His heart dropped like a stone, down below his feet. It kept on drifting leisurely downwards, through the hold of the ship and into the freezing water. He had a feeling it would keep on sinking till it struck the ocean floor;

  


Upon closer inspection, he identified the circle as being Bill Cipher’s.

  


“Hi,” said Dipper, lamely. He cracked a grin that he wouldn’t until later realize was unsettling at Stan’s dumbfounded expression. “Not gonna lie, you have n̷o̵ id̡ea how glad I am to see you, Fe-Grunkle S-stan.”

  


“You’re _alive_ ?” The old man cried, running his fingers through his coarse grey hair. He seemed like he was making to tug at it, but thought better of the action and instead elected to throw his hands out in disbelief.  “What the _fuck_ , kid?!”

  


Dipper shrugged. “I’m kind of a ghost right now, I think.” He turned his gaze to Ford, who stared right back with suspicious, narrowed eyes. He would be suspicious, too, Dipper figured; he _had_ shown up to a summoning undeniably meant for Bill. While the hunch had been there, this confirmed his speculations beyond a doubt. He knew exactly what he was, now. “Hi there, Great Uncle Ford. Long time no see.”

  


Stanford didn’t move save to cross his arms. His gaze moved over Dipper with the kind of coldness he’d only ever seen used on specimens in a laboratory. He’d only seen looks like that in movies, before.

  


Dipper poised motionless in the air for an agonizing moment, before glancing down at the circle once again. He lowered himself slowly to the deck, legs extended. He sighed in audible relief when he didn’t pass right through it. He didn’t remember putting them on, but the water soaking through his sneakers was a welcome alternative to the numbness that preceded it.

  


“So,” Stan hummed. “You’re alive...ish.”

  


“Guess so.”

  


“Said you were in “limbo?” Stan arched a bushy eyebrow. “What’s that s’posed to mean?”

  


“I was stuck,” said Dipper, turning slightly away from Ford’s scrutinizing glare. “Some inbetween place.” When his uncle said nothing he continued. “It’s been really scary.” He smiled, soft and sweet like he used to in preschool. Both of his uncles visibly tensed, and Dipper let his face fall. He rubbed an arm self-consciously. “I’m glad to see you two.”

  


Stan smiled wryly. “Right back atcha, kiddo.” He reached over, making to tousle Dipper’s hair, but Ford steadied his hand.

  


“Don’t,” he said in a hushed voice, as though that might stop anyone about three feet away from listening in on them. “It might be a trap.” Dipper noticed an odd-looking shotgun with a wide barrel slung over Ford’s back.

  


Stan didn’t speak, but the look on his face did; it might not be.

  


Dipper opened his mouth to say something when his arm flickered and glitched like an ill-fated computer monitor. Shards of numbness stuck into him like knives. “Uh-oh.” He turned to his grunkles, lips twitching. “I can’t stay!” He told them. “It’s gonna pull me back-” Dipper reached out, fingers splayed desperately as he shuddered and missed the brisk air on his skin. “Grunkle Stan? Please!”

  


Stan froze, eyes darting between his brother and nephew.

  


“H̡el͡p̸ ͟me͠!҉”

  


Stanford’s hands flew to something that looked like a modified Bushmaster slung over his shoulder on a nylon strap the same dull tan color as his coat. He held it firmly, fingers twitching. The weapon powered up with a mechanical buzz, crackling with electric blue energy from some power source inside. Stan frowned, something small and wistful. He shook his head helplessly. “Sorry, kid.”

  


Dipper grimaced, jerking backwards as he watched bits of himself fade into transparency. The gun’s muzzle flashed and popped; Stanford had fired the shotgun. A beam of hot blue energy whizzed through Dipper’s midsection, but he had already slipped from physicality. The projectile whistled harmlessly through the air for some long meters until it dissipated in the sky, like a ring of smoke from a pipe.

  


He tumbled through the air and landed hard on his back in the grass. He sensed the Flock nearby, and lifted his head. They all seemed wary, but Dipper didn’t have the energy to reassure them.

  


Instead, he sat up with a whimper, even though nothing really hurt. He shook, wrapping his arms around his knees and feeling very small as his little body was wracked with sobs. It felt like hours he spent alone until a great, woolly beast edged nervously up beside him. Tearfully, Dipper blinked and sniffed at it for a moment before throwing himself into its soft coat, not caring as big, fat tears soaked through.

  


The nightmare he’d absentmindedly identified as Groknar the Destroyer didn’t seem to know how to react for a moment, but eventually settled on folding his legs beneath him and letting Dipper weep into his neck. He twisted his head around and tentatively began to groom his master, dextrous lips and needle-teeth combing through the boy’s matted, sea-soaked curls with utmost care. The nightmare’s sandpaper tongue passed over his hair again and again, weakly at first, but upon remembering that there was no danger, he nibbled softly at Dipper’s ears and clothes, bleating meekly in an attempt to sooth his hysterics.

  


One by wary one, the nightmares seemed to forget their fear, as they had upon first finding Dipper, and pressed their soft, hairy bodies close together, keeping him warm in a great mass of oily wool and knobbly limbs. They hummed softly in their throats, exchanging the occasional quiet grunts and bleats among themselves.

  


Desperately, Dipper wept in his frustration until, at last, he slept.

  


#

  


The cookies were still soft in the middle, Mabel observed, and closed the oven. They smelled delicious; warm and sweet. Her father was splayed across the sofa in the living room with a book propped up on his chest. Every so often he would adjust his glasses or make a little sound; a gasp or chuckle at the novel in his hands.

  


Across the room, the home phone rang; a blunted, stuttering cry. “I’ll get it,” said Mabel in passing. Her father nodded gratefully and returned to his book as she moved briskly over to pick it up. “Hi! You’ve reached the Pines household!” She exclaimed with half-hearted liveliness. “What can I do you for?”

  


“Mabel?” She frowned. That was Grunkle Ford’s voice, wavering like a little kid’s. “Mabel! Are you okay?”

  


Her gaze darted to her father, who aimed a quizzical expression her way. He bobbed his head towards the phone, arching an eyebrow. Mabel cupped her hand over the receiver and stage-whispered; “Grunkles.”

  


Mark nodded amicably and  gave a little wave.

  


“I’m doin’ alright,” Mabel said. “Dad says ‘hi.’” She was fascinated by old-timey phones with curly cords and rotary dials, but right now she was glad that the one in her sweaty hands was cordless. She gave her father a thumbs up to indicate that all was well, and wandered back into the kitchen with the phone on her ear.

  


“Good,” Ford sighed. He seemed breathless, scared. “Very good.”

  


She turned the oven off and opened the door, phone pressed between her cheek and shoulder. “Are _you_ okay, Grunkle Ford? You don’t sound so good.” Mabel was halfway to asking why they didn’t call her cell when she realized it was probably dead someplace in the couch cushions.

  


There was a distinct silence on the other end; she could hear wind yowl and hum through the sails of the Stan o’ War II, could hear the splashes as her bow did a little hop over a cresting wave, but no talking. Not even a drunken belch.

  


Mabel pulled the sheet-pan of steaming cookies from the oven and deposited it awkwardly on the stovetop. “It’s awful quiet over there,” she observed, in a lame attempt to draw her great uncle’s attention. “Where are your space buddies?”

  
  


“Had to return to their home dimension some time back,” explained Ford absently, “C-thirty-something-or-other.” She could hear pen scratch on paper, desperate huffing and a clatter. After a long moment of silence, Ford spoke with unsettling intensity; “Mabel! Are you still here?”

  


She paused in sliding the cookies from the pan onto a wire cooling rack, wiggling her shoulder so the phone came higher up. “Uh, yeah. Yup,” she told him, popping the ‘p’ in a vain attempt to mask her discomfort. “Are you okay?”

  


“When’s the last time you saw your brother?”

  


Mabel’s heart did a little flip. “This morning,” she said. “He left school early ‘cause he was feeling sick. He went out walking to get some fresh air, I think. Why?” She couldn’t help the anticipation blossoming in her chest. “Did you find something out? Can you help him?”

  


She’d never heard cool, collected Stanford swear before, but he did it now and she cringed. Grunkle _Stan_ would probably abstain from using a word like that.

  


“If he comes back, don’t you-” he gasped, like the air was thin. “Don’t you dare talk to him. Don’t tell him anything!”

  


He sounded afraid, but Mabel could hear a quiet sort of anger riding the undercurrents of his voice. Desperate, seething anger.

  


“Grunkle Ford,” Mabel said, feeling her voice slip into that chastising tone she sometimes used when Dipper stayed up too late on a school night and made them both regret it in the morning. “What the frick-frack-patty-whack you talkin’ about?”

  


There was a long, painful pause before her uncle suddenly burst out; “Bill!”

  


“What?”

  


“It’s actually Bill! He tried to trick me and Stanley and we almost fell for it!"

  


Mabel blanched. “Can I talk to Grunkle Stan? Cause I think you might be doing that thing Dipper does when he doesn’t sleep enough. Like that thing with the-” She caught herself before the tangent began. “Nevermind. Just lemme talk to him, ‘kay?”

  


“He’s busy,” said Ford. Mabel didn’t like the note in his tone, something spiteful and bitter. “I sound crazy, don’t I? Don’t answer that; I know I do.”

  


“No, no,” Mabel soothed. “You’re scared, Grunkle Ford. Everybody gets a little crazy when they’re spooked.”

  


She left the cookies to cool and marched up the stairs to her room, where she sat cross-legged on her bed and pulled out her favorite glitter gel pens and a Goodbye-Kitty notepad. “Now,” she began, “Please start from the beginning.”


	13. Clutchburnt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It went.
> 
> He waited.
> 
>  
> 
> _He_ won.

Dipper wept bitterly into Groknar’s fleece, feeling like a very small child clutching a stuffed animal after a bad dream. It had to be a bad dream, right? Ford was his idol. They were meant to love each other, right?

 

It was childish and irrational, but Dipper felt betrayed. Even so, in the back of his mind he knew it was only logical. Dipper hadn’t meant to learn the extent of the relationship his great uncle had once shared with Bill, but the pieces fell together soon enough. It remained one of the most terrible incidents, he thought, of being far too clever for his own good to date. He knew Stanford loved him; he was just afraid, and rightfully so. 

 

Selfishly, he sobbed instead for the numbness that encompassed him now. He’d rather have been freezing and battered with spray from the sea. He’d jump into the frigid ocean if he had to; be subdued by the angry waves and swallowed by her gaping blue-black maw, be dashed against the icy rocks and nibbled at by the tide till nothing was left but waterlogged bones. Anything was better than this unfeeling void.

 

The sheep were sympathetic, if a bit confused. They bleated softly and preened his hair, did the best they could with their gentle lips to smooch his head like so many doting mothers. Smaller lambs tipped their heads up and planted butterfly kisses on his cheeks, grunting rhythmically and pressing their velvet noses into Dipper’s limp hands. The ewes knelt down carefully around him, like a protective barrier of wool, while the rams stood with their great long horns bared to the outside of the circle. 

 

Shadows of sensation rushed through his skin as he touched the rough surfaces of their scrunched, deformed faces and dark little toes; the oily softness of their fleece and the distant wetness of their sandpaper tongues. He felt hopelessly lonely in a way that the poor nightmares, try as they might, simply couldn’t remedy.

 

He cried with his hopeless companions until he passed out,-- could he still do that, really?-- and awoke several hours later to find himself hovering limply over the silence in the living room.

 

Dipper’s father was sound asleep on the sofa with a book-- Wakey Knoll’s  _ The Waterman _ \-- laid open and cover-up across his chest. He inspected the thick clump of pages left to be read and noted that Lyra had yet to learn the secret of camp Galepork. 

 

_ How cute. Think he’ll cry when the Brit kicks it? _

 

Dipper rolled his eyes and neglected to justify the voice with a response. Then again, Mark was an emotional guy. He’d probably at least get teary-eyed, even if he didn’t cry out loud. Probably.

 

A steely weight settled in his stomach as he realized that he hadn’t spoken to Mabel in what felt like a very long time. He phased up through the ceiling to poke his head into their room; there was talking, forcibly lighthearted guff that put a knot in the stomach and a lump in the throat.

 

But despite the strain in her voice, Mabel’s colors seemed relieved. He could taste grim relief like dragonfruit; a sticky hopefulness like honey clinging to his awareness. She hummed amiably and exuded soft pumpkin waves of love; they set Dipper’s gut churning. He stamped the feeling out and took note of how sweet her happiness was, a soft, buttery taste on the back of his throat.

 

The phantom sensation of a soul sliding down his gullet, pulsating with fading life, slimy and saccharine; at once enticing and repulsive, interrupted his train of thought. Dipper reeled, watching with distinct alarm as ropes of yellowish saliva leaked from the corners of his mouth and dribbled down his chin. He felt ill, and dirty. 

 

Mabel couldn’t see this; he wiped his mouth with a forearm and dropped through the floor once again. 

 

He didn’t quite know what to make of this. Should he be grateful that the sweetness of the kill sickened him? Or, and this one had his stomach doing flips, should he perhaps be horrified that he craved it all the same? Dipper speculated, somewhat bitterly, that it was probably safe to be both of those things.

 

Worrying his lip, he phased back up through the ceiling with a shudder. His gaze slid over the empty hallway with something akin to suspicion. Mabel’s colors seeped through the door to their room, a sliver ajar, and made his mouth wet. 

 

He swallowed the feeling and drifted aimlessly forward, passing through the door and rising as best he could out of his sister’s line of sight. She seemed occupied with whatever she was doing on the phone, a pink notepad in her lap and a pen pressed to her lips as she hummed and leaned into the speaker.

 

Dipper diverted his attention from Mabel, turning it to his own empty bed. The slate sheets were mussed and littered with clothes and papers, stuffies and blankets courtesy of his sister; just the way he’d left it. His heart sank-- it seemed to be doing that a lot lately --and anxiety rolled in his belly. Would he ever go back to normal?

 

Did he  _ want  _ to?

 

Mabel huffed and fidgeted, doodling little hearts and stars in the margins of her notepad, pouting a twee little frown that made her look like a little kid again.

 

_ She’s going to die,  _ said the Voice. Its cheery, nasal tone ricocheted in Dipper’s head.  _ But don’t worry, kid. We’ll be fine. _

 

“Please stop it,” Dipper choked, voice barely a whisper. “Leave me alone.”

 

Seeming offended, the Voice made something like a sigh.  _ I’m trying to help you,  _ it implored.  _ You should listen to me. _

 

He grit his teeth and ducked below the floor so that Mabel would be out of earshot. “Who the hell are you?” Dipper hissed, curling his fingers against his scalp as though that might drive the foreignness invading him away. “Why are you in my head? Get out!”

 

_ We’re not so different, kid. Creatures of intellect. Logic. _

 

“Fuck you.”

 

_ That’s a rude thing to say. _

 

“Just get out of my head,” he whimpered. If he could have dropped to the floor and curled into a ball right there he would’ve. Unfortunately, his limbs passed through each other, and the floor, so he resorted to hovering low and arching his back.

 

The Voice seemed to consider something, then said:  _ Fine. Good luck, kid. _

 

And there was silence. The pressure that built beneath his jaw was gone, the hum of pain in his skull and pulsing through his veins was gone. He felt almost alive. However, Dipper’s relief was short-lived. Something like that… it sounded like Bill and the anxiety rolling in his stomach turned into a tidal wave.

 

The world swam around him and nausea clawed at his belly. It was hard to breathe. What if Bill wasn’t really dead? Just hitchhiking, catching a ride to drive him slowly insane and use him for whatever nefarious scheme for revenge he was-

 

“Stop it,” said Dipper to the wall in front of him. He didn’t really need to breathe anymore but he put a hand on his chest and extended it slowly with each breath. “I,” he began, slowly, “am an intelligent, c-competent young m-m-man. I can do m-many things.” As he recited, relaxation came, slowly, but surely. “But I c-can only do them…” he took a deep breath, “if I m-maintain control of my faculties…” another, “and organize myself.”

 

He repeated the phrases like a mantra, breathing slow and deep till his chest stopped racing and his blood ran warm again.

 

“ _ One _ good thing came out of therapy,” he muttered, and sighed heavily. He didn’t think he’d ever felt so tired in his life. Dipper hadn’t had an attack in a long time, not like this one. He’d panicked in recent months, but not like this. He hadn’t needed to break out his self-reassurance method since he started middle school.

 

Now that the torrent of bad feelings had ended, Dipper elected to wait. Just a few minutes, he decided, till Mabel would be done with her call. Then they could talk, and he could explain what he knew so far so this damned speculation would quit burning in the back of his throat. 

 

So wait he did.

 

#

 

There was a long, staticky silence on the other end of the line before her Grunkle’s raspy voice crackled through. “Mabel, pumpkin? Ford’s gettin’ all anxious or somethin’. What can I help ya with?”

 

Mabel nibbled thoughtfully on the cap of her pen. “Grunkle Ford told me something was all wrong with Dippingsauce,” she explained.”He said not to trust him, I think. Did something happen?”

 

“We summoned your brother,” Stanley said. Mabel wrote as he continued: “The stuff you told us about your brother was concerning. Sixer couldn’t figure out why those things were happening-- he panicked. Decided that Bill must’ve still been alive, so he got a can of paint and drew a pentagram or somethin’ on the deck. Was pretty small, maybe two or three feet across.

 

“He said something in a real old language, a dead one, I think. There might’ve been words in Latin, if I remember from high school, but most of ‘em were just gibberish. He did this chanty thing that reminded me of old bad movies where they have to raise the dead, and I said: ‘Ford, this is crazy.’”

 

Mabel emitted a soft sound of acknowledgement, attempting to fill the wide-ruled pink stationary with as much information as possible before she’d have to turn the page.

 

“Of course, Poindexter over here didn’t listen, so he finished up his chant. Nothing happened at first, but then he got a fish! I dunno where it came from, really, but he got a big fat cod fish from someplace and put it in the circle. He did the chant again, like a lunatic.” Stan snorted and Mabel hummed again.

 

“I think Sixer’s nuts, myself. Cipher had a thing for dramatics, but Dipper just popped up, y’know? One minute he wasn’t there and then he just was, right, no bells and whistles or nothin’. He looked normal, too, kinda tired and messy and he had seaweed in his hair from the ocean but he looked himself.”

 

“That’s good,” she mused. “Then what happened?”

 

Stan took a long breath. “Well, he got seawater in his mouth, I think. Spat it over the side’n told me ‘hi there Grunkle Stan,’ like it was nothin’, and I said ‘what the f- err, heck.’ He said he was glad to see us ‘cause it was lonely in limbo, or somethin’ like that. He said he was like a ghost.”

 

Mabel nodded. “Sounds about right.”

“We talked for a minute or two but the kid started to flicker and stuff, like TV durin’ a storm. He said ‘I can’t stay,’ and asked for help, but Ford wasn’t havin’ it. He shot at him with his stupid phase-gun-thing from space,” Stan confessed bitterly, “but lucky for your brother he’d already gone poof. I backhanded Poindexter for tryin’ to hurt our nephew, though.”

 

Mabel frowned deeply. “It’s bad that he showed up to a Bill thing. Summoning, I guess you’d call it.” She worried her lip for a moment before conceding: “But I’m glad he’s okay. He’s been real scared and stuff lately so I’m glad he got to talk to you. But,” she intoned, “I think I have a pretty good idea as to why he popped up on your boat.”

 

“Really?” Stan sounded vaguely impressed. “Spill, kiddo.”

 

She weighed her options, briefly, before electing to just get it over with. “I think Bill tried to go hitchhiking.”

 

Stan was questioning her vague statement through the speaker, but Mabel wasn’t paying attention. She may not have been as bright as Dipper, but she was by no means a stupid girl, and worked to cobble her disorganized thoughts into a coherent hypothesis, like she’d been taught in science class.

 

“See, Dipper was sleep deprived once during the summer-- more than once, actually, but that doesn’t matter. Point is, he got tricked by Bill to make a deal so he could crack a code, so that big ol’ corn chip demon got to waltz around in Dipstick’s body for a few hours.”

 

“Why didn't I hear about this?” Stan complained, incredulous to hide the waver in his voice, “You serious?”

 

“As a Mabel Juice-induced heart attack,” she promised with a snort, eliciting a shuddering sound from the other end. 

 

“The deal was open-ended, though.” She shuddered herself at the thought of what could have happened, and was grateful that Bill had either overlooked this fact or simply lost interest. “Bill could’ve hopped into the driver’s seat whenever he wanted, ‘cause Dipper said he would lend him a puppet, but not for how long. He thought a sock puppet, just this once, but he wasn’t specific, I don’t think.”

 

Stan sounded wary when he asked her, “Where are you going with this, Mabel?”

 

“I think when we beat Bill with the memory gun, he sort of tried to retreat,” Mabel explained. She felt awfully proud of her deductive skills, despite the situation. “‘Cause he still had the keys to the car.” She wet her lips and combed her brain for an adequate metaphor. “It’s like he was in a car already, a big red one like yours, except your car was on fire. So he took the other keys and hopped into a different truck. The other one isn’t on fire but it can’t cure the burns.”

 

A staticky gasp crawled through the speaker. “You don’t mean…”

 

Mabel sighed through her nose. “Bill got hurt enough by the memory gun to finish the job,” she explained, “Just not right away.”

 

“That’s…” Stan seemed to sigh. “That’s why I could remember so soon. Fidds got zapped decades ago and he still doesn’t remember everything. Dumb luck. A gamble.” He laughed in disbelief. “Just my style.”

 

Mabel chuckled along with him, but quickly returned to the topic at hand. “That’s not all, though. It didn’t get him right away. I think he had enough time to… hop over…” she took a deep breath, rolling the phrase around in her mouth before reluctantly spitting it out: “I think Bill kicked it while he was still in Dipper’s head.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lookit me go!  
> this is not my favorite chapter, mostly a transitional one so we can get to the good bits


	14. Gush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things go horribly wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: graphic gore/violence, body horror, (failed) exorcism

Dipper very nearly considered not speaking to Mabel about what had happened on the boat, but the thought gnawed at him, twisted up his insides, so on a brisk Tuesday afternoon once Mabel was finished with school, he floated up alongside her.

 

“Hi,” he said awkwardly. It was a foreign feeling to Dipper, being uncomfortable with his twin. She hadn’t been talking to him so much lately.

 

“Hi,” Mabel echoed, avoiding his eyes. He had a hunch that they were discolored again-- that had happened a few times last week.

 

Hesitation gripped him briefly, but Dipper soldiered on as they rounded the corner. The park was silent save the dry rustling of the trees and the grass. Leaves the colors of sunset crunched beneath Mabel’s scuffed-up Mary Janes. The rusted green sign marking the Hillside-Magnolia intersection creaked in the autumn breeze.

 

“I’m sorry,” Dipper finally said, honestly. “About before. I think I know what’s wrong with me now.” Mabel looked up at him; her hazel eyes glistened with hurt. He tasted the feeling someplace on the roof of his mouth and winced in sympathy. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I should have told you before but I had to be sure.”

 

Her expression was guarded, but Mabel stopped walking and turned to face her brother properly. Anxiety rolled from her in waves. Her knuckles were white on the strap of her bookbag. “Okay.” She smiled thinly. “Spill the beans, bro.”

 

Dipper took a deep breath he didn’t need. “I’m a demon.”

 

“I thought so.”

 

He’d expected Mabel to be mad. Afraid, maybe. Hell, to laugh at him for being ridiculous, that he was overthinking things and everything was perfectly okay. Dipper spoke through clenched teeth. “How did you guess? How… How long have you known?” A part of him itched at Mabel’s nonchalance;  _ she should have been afraid.  _ His voice dropped to a whisper next, inaudible; “You’re not supposed to be here.”

 

His head once again grew silent.

 

“A while.” she admitted. “But a few days ago was when I got it. A hunch,” Mabel explained simply. “Grunkle Stan helped me put it together.”

 

Dipper looked mildly perturbed. “Fez?”

 

Mabel froze and so did her twin, who blinked owlishly, innocently at her; her heart ached at the sight. He seemed to roll the word silently around in his mouth for a moment, as though trying to learn a foreign phrase. An expression of wide-eyed dismay crept over his face, and Mabel rushed to don a winning smile for her brother.

 

“Don’t worry, broski.” The cheer in her voice was fake and plastic. “It’s okay. We’ll make this all right.”

 

The reassurances fell on deaf ears; this was a tipping point and Dipper had just been shoved over the edge.“I did it again,” he cried in despair. Mabel opened her mouth to sooth him, but he wasn’t yet done with his lament; fear turned quickly to rage. “It’s Bill!” He trembled. “Fucking paperweight! He’s in my head!”

 

Mabel was glad no one else was around to see her grimace at thin air, reaching out to sooth nothing. “Dipper!” She scolded him halfheartedly as he bared his teeth in a snarl. They were too big, too many, They looked sharp and savage, all crammed into her brother’s dainty mouth like rows of shark’s teeth. She couldn’t help but be afraid. “Please stop! We can fix this!”

 

He whipped his head around to face her so fast Mabel thought his neck might’ve snapped. His eyes were rimmed in dark, irises blazing slivers of gold around long pupils, contracted so tightly that they were barely slits against the hard yellow that overtook his gaze.

 

She could only manage a strangled whimper. Mabel’s bookbag fell to the ground.

 

“No we ć̠̭̩͍̼̲̰a͙̕n̛̝̗̹͚͉͎'̫̘͇͚͙̭t̴̥̝̹͕!” Dipper roared. His voice was layered with shrill harmonies and booming undertones, like a choir spoke through staticky megaphones in his throat, in unnerving, perfect unison. Bill’s voice grating and laced with heavy echoes, but those shrill, nasal tones were more annoying than anything else. This was worse, especially coming from her brother. “I’m st̷uck͞ like th͡is and there’s n̢o͠thing we can do about it!” He tossed his head, milky tears leaking from his eyes. “Fu҉͉̘c̬̫̣k̟̮."

 

Mabel screamed as he tossed his hands down in frustration and they burst into crackling blue flames. They sputtered and seethed along his forearms, spitting hot white sparks that sizzled against the concrete.

 

Her brother stared, wide-eyed, at his hands, then back at Mabel, then back again. “Fuck,” he repeated lamely, and sounded like he was talking through his nose. Tears the color of eggshell leaked from his eyes, crawling down his face to sizzle on the concrete. Dipper’s feet nearly scraped the ground. He looked impossibly small and frail. “This isn’t what I wanted,” he whimpered. Mabel hesitated to move in and hug her brother; his cattish yellow eyes showed no sign of returning to normal, though the pupils were currently dilated so that they resembled something close to normal. They were too tall and narrow, but they were more rounded at the edges than before.

 

After another brief moment of deliberation, Mabel leaned forward and put her arms around Dipper. “I don’t want to lose you,” she told him, voice trembling. “I won’t let you go. I won’t let this happen.”

“I know.” Dipper mumbled, drawing weakly away. “I know you won’t.”

“What will we tell Mom and Dad?” Mabel ventured, fiddling with her sweater sleeves. Her round face wore an unusual expression of worry, brows creased and mouth pulled into a tight frown. She seemed to sink deeper into her turtleneck as Dipper considered the question.

 

At length, he admitted; “I don’t know.” He ran a hand through his hair, sighing. “There’s so much… everything’s…” He hissed through his teeth in frustration. “Mabel. What am I gonna do? Who’m I gonna be?”

 

“What do you mean?” Mabel whimpered, shrinking back slightly as her brother’s gaze grew desperate, snake-eyes rolling wildly in their sockets. 

 

“Think about it!” he implored. “A demon! That’s what I am, isn’t it?”

 

Mabel shifted uncomfortably in place. She didn’t like where this was going, not one bit. “Yeah. No…” She bit her lip. “Maybe.”

 

Dipper bared his teeth in a grimace; they were just as bad as before. All of them were evenly sized and spaced, in two wicked rows, like shark’s teeth bursting from his swollen red gums.

 

“What if…” He swallowed hard. “What if I’m just as bad as he was?” Mabel could see him shaking now. “What if I get like… like  _ Bill _ !”

 

Mabel didn’t answer, not at first. “We need to go to Gravity Falls,” she finally said. “Grunkle Ford will know how to fix things and we won’t even have to think like that, ok?”

 

A wordless nod was the only reply Dipper gave as they shuffled awkwardly together down the street. Mabel shivered in the autumn breeze and sent a pang of longing through her brother. He wished he could feel the brisk air like she did, but the waxy coat of numbness enveloping him shed sensation like water and left him with mere phantoms feelings, like memories half-forgotten.

 

They moved together to the house, clinging to one another without really touching, close to one another and cold. Mabel greeted their parents lamely, told them her day was good, and stumbled upstairs as quickly as she could, much to Mark and Anna’s unease. They both looked like they wanted to say something, ask what on Earth was going on, Mabel? What the hell’s happened to our son, Mabel? But neither said a word, lips pressed into matching tight lines, tense hands strung stiffly together. 

 

Their eyes followed the one child they could see, but as he passed, Dipper could taste a sudden stripe of… something breaching through their auras, heady and sickly-sweet to make him swoon. It lingered with a leg over the divide between fear and quietly horrified concern that made his stomach turn. Both of his parents tensed visibly and quickly relaxed once he moved out of their immediate vicinity, sending a thread of unease curling into his own chest.

 

_ I lied to you before, so I’ll let you in on something now; they don’t know that they know, but trust me when I say they know. _

 

A rattling growl rose from Dipper’s throat, causing Mabel to glance at him out of habit, catch sight of the rows of awful teeth stretching his jaws bared in a snarl, and emit a barely-suppressed squeak that came a hair’s breadth from catching the attention of their parents. She shot him a warning look, and upon meeting her gaze Dipper tapped his chest weakly with a fist, coughing exaggeratedly and shooting a sheepish grin her way.

 

He could only taste her fear and it made him sick.

 

Mabel was on the phone for a long time before she went to bed, talking to their Grunkles-- mostly Stanley, since Ford was apparently still shaken up. Guilt knotted in Dipper’s stomach even as Mabel put the phone down and turned to him with glistening eyes.

 

“They’ll be home in two weeks,” Mabel told him. “They’re getting ready to leave right now.”

 

“Okay.” Dipper bit his lip and his sister cringed, though he didn’t seem to notice her discomfort. “What will we do now?”

Mabel wore a wan smile. “Take things a day at a time, Dippingsauce.” She reached up and though her fingers sunk into his insubstantial flesh she curled them around his icy hand. “A day at a time.”

 

#

 

School was a touchy subject for Mabel this week. She’d barely scraped by on a physics quiz with a C-minus grade, and her teachers were becoming increasingly concerned with all of the talking she did to apparently thin air when she thought they weren’t looking. Dipper had offered to “help” her, but she knew better. Maybe it was just because he was ill and desperate for a little contact, but it would be irresponsible to cater to bad habits like cheating, especially in such a good student as her brother usually was.

 

But even with the little struggles, seaweed wrapped around her legs, Mabel was treading water just fine, thank you very much. She was afloat with her head above the water and all that mattered was lasting just a little longer, until she and Dipper could retreat to Gravity Falls, where this whole fiasco would blow over and everything would be okay again.

 

On the bright side, Miss Terry had been especially accommodating, perfectly pleased to give Mabel passes on missed homework or lost books. The poor girl obviously had something going on, she figured, and while at this point it seemed she wasn’t going to learn exactly what any time soon, she certainly needed all the help she could get. Teresa intended to provide just that.

 

#

 

Mabel shuffled into the repurposed auditorium that made up the demonology classroom, bleary-eyed and feeling drained at the end of an exhausting Tuesday afternoon. Dipper floated lazily behind her, eyes half-lidded and unfocused by sleep; he seemed to share her enthusiasm, or lack thereof.

 

She practically fell into her seat, head smacking carelessly against the desk as Mabel fell dramatically limp. Looking up to see her brother’s reaction, she started slightly to find that he simply wasn’t there, hovering just above and behind her as he usually preferred to float. Her gaze slid over the classroom, empty save herself and a wide-eyed Miss Terry.

 

“What’s the matter?” Mabel asked, or, that’s what she would have asked if she hadn’t followed her teacher’s horrified gaze to find her brother floating only an inch or two off the ground, quite literally darkening the door-frame; his hand was pressed against something oil-slick and translucent that shimmered and pulsed beneath his smoking palm. He wore an expression of fey curiosity, a distant confusion that made him seem very far away.

 

That was all well and good; that wasn’t the problem. His eyes glowed like blazing disks of burnished brass against tar-colored darkness that rimmed his sclerae, and chunks of his form seemed to flicker and break off before phasing back to their proper places once more. Black brickwork crept over his cheeks and stripped away his skin like paper, leaving a heavy, dark miasma to choke the air around him.

 

Terry finally dropped the book in her hand and fumbled desperately within her pocket, reaching for the old curly-wired phone perched tiredly on her plastic folding desk. “Class is cancelled for E-block,” she said into the receiver in a shaky-calm voice. “Complication with some… magical materials. Students can take a study hall in the junior-senior room instead.” At length, she procured a tasselled rosary, with painted hazelwood beads and silver thread, and wrapped the exquisite little thing around her chubby hand.

 

“Get back!” Terry cried over the staticky PA system echoing her words, brandishing the blessed beads and picking up a somewhat crudely-carved birch ankh from her desk. The nametag of the student who made it was still dangling on twine from the symbol’s left arm. Mabel couldn’t help but shrink away as her brother turned, very slowly, to look at them. He wore no recognition. His face was blank.

 

Mabel knew it in her heart; that in that moment, what she was seeing wasn’t Dipper.

 

Not-Dipper bared his teeth, a growl rattling in his throat as Mabel’s teacher edged closer. He hunched his shoulders defensively, fingers curling dangerously into the colorful ward in the doorframe, which, Mabel now saw, was sustained by a set of inconspicuous sigils carved into the wood just deep enough to take effect without being exceptional in their appearance. Spiderweb cracks crept along the edge of one near the bottom of the door, and Mabel’s heart sank.

 

Neither young woman had time to react when not-Dipper snarled, tensed, and veiny cracks leapt out from where his hands made contact with the ethereal surface. He roared, clawing at it like a dog at a door, pulling out chunk after chunk of holy defense that made the demonology classroom a sanctuary.

 

Luckily, it was indeed a demonology classroom, and was more or less equipped for situations such as this one.

Terry made a daring lunge, waving the rosary threateningly before her. Not-Dipper recoiled slightly, but followed the damn thing like a swaying snake, dribbling long ropes of yellow, slimy saliva from his mouth. He only got worse.

 

This wasn’t Dipper, wasn’t her brother, this rabid thing that gurgled and bellowed like an animal, scrabbling desperately at the barrier and tearing it to shreds. His fingers stopped having nails and grew wicked claws as streaks of swollen void crawled up his arms, squares like cobblestones flickering the color of night sky over his skin. There was a sizable hole in the barrier now, and despite this monstrous rage, not-Dipper was no more an idiot than before.

 

“Quick, Mabel!” Terry demanded, horror dawning on her face. “Go into my bottom right desk drawer-” she jumped back as this eldritch thing bared long rows of oversized teeth, a forked tongue the color of moldy clementines writhing in his mouth as he sputtered and attempted to fit his head through the hole in the barrier. “G-get the mason jars!” 

 

Mabel did as she was told, skidding to her knees and tearing her favorite sequined purple leggings as she did. She rummaged shakily through the contents of the drawer, desperate and vision blurred by tears. There were too many of them. “Which ones?!” She implored, covering her head as not-Dipper sent a long shard of the barrier sailing overhead. It stuck solidly in the table just to the left of Terry’s desk before crumbling into nothing.

 

“Pink!” Grunted Terry curtly as she threw the ankh at not-Dipper. He hissed and pawed at his smoking face, but just like the pink burns on his hands and arms he shrugged off the fresh blisters under his eye in favor of letting an enraged howl tear from his throat. “Pink salt!”

 

There it was! Mabel grabbed a jar with sweaty hands and lobbed it weakly to her teacher, who caught it lightly and sidestepped flecks of spittle thrown by not-Dipper’s thrashing. The milky stuff sizzled like grease on the floor. She also procured one for herself, fumbling with the lid till the jar popped open.

 

“What now?” Mabel put forward, grinding her teeth in thin frustration.

 

Terry stumbled back and ducked behind the desk, pushing her student back along with her. “Your brother’s clearly possessed,” she explained, and Mabel resisted the urge to cringe. When he was possessed, she remembered with stunning clarity, his eyes were milky and out of focus, glassy. His smiles were too wide and his voice too high and his hips swung too much when he walked and this was definitely not the same.

 

Mabel made to raise this point, but Terry swiftly cut her off. “Shush,” she ordered, firm but not unkind. “Here’s what we need to do.” She lightly shook her jar of salt and explained, “He, or rather, the demon possessing him, is going to break that barrier any minute now, and when it does, we need to each take a side. We’ll open our jars and run around your brother so the lines of salt form a circle that will contain him until we can perform an exorcism.” She reached over and gave Mabel’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “It’ll be ok. Are you ready?”

 

“I guess I’ll have to be,” Mabel remarked with a strained smile as not-Dipper’s writhing seemed to reach a fever pitch; with an earsplitting thunder of shattering glass the barrier gave way, and Terry leapt to her feet. 

 

Mabel moved opposite her, open jar of salt trailing down and behind her to leave a faint pink trail in her wake. The grains fell neatly into line and bled, unnervingly perfect, into Terry’s mirrored line so that they formed a clean, wide circle.

 

Terry turned around and patted herself down as though looking for something in her pocket and withdrew a faded brass key. She palmed it briefly before jogging over to a tall file cabinet towards the far side of the room. Mabel had never paid it much mind; only teachers and other authorized personnel were allowed access because it apparently contained the basis for powerful magicks; deserving of the ‘k’ and all.

 

The girl made sure to keep her eyes averted from the figure of her brother. This wasn’t unlike what had happened in the kitchen that night, with the dark running down his chin and something crazed in his eyes. It was happening again and it made her heart ache.

 

Her teacher returned with an armful of supplies; something that looked like a beige gasoline tank with a broad ‘C+ CONCENTRATION’ printed in bold face across the side, a spray bottle that formerly housed a common household cleaner, a package of children’s sidewalk chalk and a clear Ziploc bag full of dried herbs and shriveled little fruits were all among her arsenal.

 

“What’s all this for?” Mabel inquired meekly and knowing full well what Terry intended to do with it. Uncertainty pressed against her sternum; maybe this could make her brother better again. On the other hand, however, she’d seen enough scary movies to know that exorcisms were agony for all parties involved, and she wondered if, even if it did work, Dipper would forgive her for facilitating such a life-scarring, traumatising procedure.

 

Predictably, Terry responded with the shaky confidence of a small child riding without training wheels for the first time. “Exorcism. We’re going to get your brother back.” There was something steely and grown-up in her voice now.

 

Mabel hesitated, but elected to turn around. Not-Dipper seemed more like just Dipper now, dawning horror creeping over his white face, pale as a sheet. He whimpered softly at Mabel, moving to reach for her and recoiling with a hiss as his hand sizzled against a slick pink barrier that pulsed up from the line of salt.

 

He clutched the offending limb close to his chest, sinking low towards the ground. So frail, so tiny, seeing her brother like this made Mabel want to cry. She lifted her foot, meaning to approach and release him and make sure he was alright, but Terry had a firm hand on her shoulder before she could move.

 

“It could be a trap,” she warned, and Mabel kept her mouth shut, lips trembling as Dipper’s brass eyes glistened with hurt.

 

Terry dumped the entire keg of what was presumably holy water over Dipper. He  _ screamed _ , an ear-splitting, blood-boiling shriek as his body bubbled and writhed with blisters, puckered red skin swelling and bursting and swelling again as the water soaked through his clothes. Ichor like liquid gold, glittering and thick, oozed from the wounds, dripping from his mouth and leaking from his nose. Chunks of reddened skin peeled away to reveal something darker than black and unsettling, a silhouette the color of void itself. This was a terrible mistake.

 

Terry knew it, too.

 

“Good God,” she breathed as Dipper (yes, this was him, sobbing and begging within this circle) pounded a fist on the floor only to have the stripped bones melt like butter in the sun, bleeding sloppily into the mess of black and gold that was staining the floor.

 

“M͜a͞b̛e̵̛͝l̛̀!̛” Dipper wailed, “M͐̕a̋ͩ͒̉̐̒͏ḃ͊͗̋ͯ̋͡e̎͑ͯ͌̅͘l͒͞,̏̿ ͌̋ͣ͋ _ h͗ͩe̢͑ͤ̉ͪļp̈̎ ͋ͧ͛mͯ̓ͦ̌ͧͦe̍̔͠ _ !”

 

Terry took the girl gently by the shoulder, rubbing soothing circles into her back as she sobbed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aah sorry about how late this one was! (In my defense it IS approximately 60% longer than usual?) Happy Halloween!


	15. Revision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oops.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aah you guys I'm so sorry for taking so long ;; school has hit me like a truck man

Teresa stared in horror what she’d done. This boy wailed and writhed on the floor, flesh melting and reforming and blistering over what bones hadn’t turned to sludge, eyes swelling and popping like grapes before they reformed and did it again. He shrieked, high and grating; teeth sprouted from his arms, a gaping maw splitting his back. 

 

Brand-new eyes burst from his lolling tongue and spread down his neck and belly. His crumbling arms tried to grow back with too many grinding joints and not enough fused fingers, trembling and arthritic before they slid from their sockets and did it again. The boy’s twisted body was in total overload- the more damage it tried to repair, the more it made things worse, and Terry clutched Mabel closer to her chest as she tried to twist and see the carnage like a train crash; she wouldn’t be able to look away.

 

“M̵͘͞a̵̴ke̵ ͠i̶͢t͟ ̡́s̸t͏o͜͏̵p̡!͞ ͞P͟l̷͜͞e̸a̶se̡̕!” A layered voice buzzed from… Dipper. Dipper, oh  _ God _ . It was just high enough to sound artificially altered without being comical, layered with those terrible shrill harmonies and booming undertones that brought to mind sly, impish con men. Bile rose in her throat.

 

The scent of burning flesh made her want to gag. She felt tears sliding over her puffy cheeks, released a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Numbly, Terry shushed Mabel, stroking her curly hair and trying desperately to withhold her own sobs.

 

What had she done? She was the teacher, the adult, but she was helpless and horrified. She couldn’t move until the squirming mass of destroyed flesh and singed clothes ceased its twitching.

 

Mabel shoved Terry away with a cry, sliding to her knees at the foot of the circle. She swiped away the lines of salt, walking on her knees to the remains (they couldn’t truly be called a corpse, shapeless and twisted as they were.) Sobs wracked her little body as she screamed, tears leaping from her face to sizzle against the meager blob of tissue and blood before her.

 

“No!” She roared, so loud her voice broke and Terry feared she might hurt herself. “I knew! I  _ knew _ , Miss Terry, and I  _ didn’t stop you _ !” She wept bitterly, clutching her sides and choking through gasping breaths; “This is a-all my f-fault. I’m s-s-so sorry, Dipper!”

 

Terry choked back a sob of her own and reached out to her student. “No, Mabel sweetie. You couldn’t possibly have known.”

 

No answer save a strangled whimper.

 

On her hands and knees Mabel crawled forward, kneeling and bowing her head. With trembling fingers, she reached out to brush something that resembled the upper half of a human (rather, human-adjacent, with too many teeth and an indent resembling a malformed third eye-socket) skull protruding from the flesh-rubble. “I’m so sorry,” she moaned through her tears. “I would give  _ anything  _ to fix this, Dipper.”

 

Blue flames sprung up from the heap that used to be Mabel’s brother, vaporizing the remains in an instant. Even the ash vanished into the air, and the girl slumped awkwardly forward onto the tile.

 

“Mabel?” Terry ventured. Unease settled in the pit of her stomach like an iron weight.

 

She didn’t turn around, not at first. Instead, Mabel crawled on her hands and knees, stumbling clumsily to her feet. Her movements were halting and stiff, like a marionette with yanked strings.

 

“I... wh͢a̶t͢?͡” she wondered aloud, and Terry could hear the distorted tenor winding its way around her voice.

 

“Oh no.” Terry’s heart dropped to her feet. “No, no! This can’t be happening!”

 

Mabel turned around slowly, movements stiff and careful. She carried herself differently as she shifted, stance narrow and defensive with hands curled close against her chest. Terry’s stomach did a flip as her student regarded her with wide brass eyes. Her unusually passive demeanor slipped away like shed clothing, leaving bare, honest skin exposed to air as Mabel dropped into a defensive crouch, shoulders hunched and lip curled in a blunted snarl.

 

Terry made to reach out, but was only met with lunges and swipes from the possessed girl. “Ṡ̴̷̒̇͐̋͌͟t̸̢̂̚̚a̵͒͆͐̌͑ͭ̎ͮyͣ̄͛̃̏ͧ̆̚͜͝͡ ͆ͪ͂͒͐̓ͪ̕҉b̧̍ͨ͜͡áͦ̏̋̋̚͡c̡̐ͯk̏̀!̵̛̏͊̊̅̊̎̌͆” She roared, but then clutched her throat with a strangled sound. Mabel looked, glassy-eyed, at something Terry couldn’t see and frowned.

 

She was a wallflower again and looked ready to cry, yellow eyes glistening. “Plea̕se, ̡ sta͏y ͘away̴.͡ Pl͡e͜as͞e.͝.”

 

Terry slowly lowered the small arsenal she’d accrued, placing each item carefully on the floor before backing away. “Oh my God- Dipper, is that you? Pines? I-”

 

“Shh.” Mabel, rather Dipper in her body, Terry supposed, put a finger to her lips and swatted at the air in front of her in a shushing gesture. Her legs shook and mis-stepped as the male twin evidently tried to relearn how to walk, pacing anxiously back and forth over what used to be a summoning circle. “No,” he said with his sister’s lips, “that c͜a̛n'̛t͜ be right.” He paused, Mabel’s head tipped uncannily to one side and mouth pulled into a worried, fey frown. 

 

Terry hesitated, but elected to speak. “Excuse me?”

 

Dipper pulled Mabel’s head around to look at their teacher so violently she was afraid he may have just killed her. But the body kept on standing and breathing as usual, so Terry let out an apprehensive breath and spoke slowly. “Who is in- who am I speaking to right now?”

 

The girl possessed by her brother didn’t say anything at all, but regarded Teresa with something akin to confusion, honey-brown eyes no longer so sharp. Dawning horror slid over her features, mouth left ajar as though they hadn’t a clue what to make of it. Perhaps this wasn’t just one twin taking control, Terry speculated, but they were smashed together so hard as to create some type of conglomerate entity.

 

“I’m so sorry for pouring holy water on you,” said Terry honestly, voice thin. “I was trying to help, I was!”

 

The girl didn’t respond, eyes rolling back in her head as she keeled over in a faint.

 

#

 

Mabel woke in the back of a car that smelled like floral perfume over the gamey scent of outdoor cats. She groaned into the seat and peeled her sweating body off the vinyl. There was no trace of Dipper.

It took a long moment for her to register that the person in the driver’s seat was Miss Terry, who regarded her with warm eyes and lips creased into a frown.

 

“Miss T?” She croaked and squealed in surprise; her throat felt like it was in tatters right about now. Mabel dropped her voice to a hoarse whisper. “Why’m I in your car?” She swallowed gingerly, wincing as stinging saliva irritated her tender throat. “What happened?”

 

Teresa let out a sigh of relief. “You passed out, don’t you remember?” Mabel nodded and she continued, “There was a demon- it replaced your brother, somehow.” She sounded like she was about to cry. “I think it was nearly dead but you went over there and it possessed you- oh God, I thought I’d lost you!”

 

Mabel cringed, sitting up properly and leaning forward. The car wasn’t moving, but it felt like it was as the world spun and her stomach lurched. Urgency rolled in her belly, so she wriggled across the seat and fumbled with the door, getting it open just in time to throw up her lunch all over the pavement.

 

“Sorry,” she choked through her tears, and heaved bile for a moment longer before it was done.

 

Terry groaned in sympathy, exiting the vehicle and jogging around to Mabel’s side, where she helped lift the high-schooler over the puddle of vomit and onto clean concrete, and caught her when she swayed and threatened to topple over completely. “It’s ok, sweetie.” She patted Mabel’s back, as though burping a baby, and stood back as another spasm took the girl’s throat and she retched again, spitting up more milky bile and half-digested food. Terry could hose that down later.

 

In the meantime, she helped Mabel stagger down the little walkway through her garden, only minding a little when the teen stumbled and crushed some of her pansies. She hoisted the trembling girl up the front steps and over the porch, giving her shoulder a reassuring squeeze through her sweater before leaving her with a clear Tupperware container and a blanket on her sofa.

She dialed Mabel’s home phone number. “Hi there,” she said with false pleasantness, “this is Teresa Neri, one of your daughter’s teachers.”

 

There was no delay in her father’s reply. “Is Mabel in trouble? Gosh! I can promise you right now that her brother’s condition is tough on her and-”

 

Terry tapped the receiver hard enough to send feedback through to the other side. “Sorry about that,” she winced in sympathy despite not being face-to-face. “But don’t worry, Mister Pines; your daughter’s not in any kind of trouble.”

 

“Oh. What is it then?”

 

“Nothing much. I just wanted to let you know that I am helping Mabel a bit with her studies this afternoon, so it is likely she’ll be a bit late to come home.”

 

Mister Pines seemed skeptical on the other end of the line. “Really? Mabel never mentioned anything about private tutoring.”

 

“I think she’s afraid to tell you that she was struggling,” Terry lied. “Especially with the state of her brother, she might have felt like she would have been a burden on you. She’s a little shy about coming on the phone right now, actually.” She laughed stiffly. “But don’t worry a bit, Mister Pines; your daughter’s in good hands and I will do everything I can to help her excel. She should be home in an hour or two at most, depends on what she would like to go over with me.” 

 

“Makes sense,” Mark conceded, albeit cautiously.

 

Terry hummed in confirmation. “I would think so too. By the way, how’s poor Dipper? Mabel told me that he’s been very sick and I’ve gotten rather worried about him.” 

 

There was a long silence and any hope that he was alive and well back at the house crumbled. “Sorry,” she said, “I shouldn’t pry. I just get a little too invested in my students’ personal lives. The parent-teacher board likes to remind me of it, sometimes. I’ll drop the subject. Sorry.”

 

Mark laughed pleasantly. “No worries, Miss Neri. I appreciate your concern. Dipper’s been… he’s been having a hard time, but we’re optimistic. Tell Mabel it’s ok, by the way. I think it’s very responsible of her to admit she needs help and go get it, all by herself.”

 

“I will.”

 

“Alright then.” There was a rattle and a click on the other end as Mister Pines hung up the phone.

 

Terry turned around to face Mabel. She looked even more ill than before, face scrunched stupidly up into a grimace that held back tears. “Thanks,” the teen choked, weeping. “I’m so sorry, Miss T-”

 

“No.” She hadn’t meant for the interruption to come out so harshly, but it couldn’t be helped now. Terry sighed through clenched teeth, sitting herself down on the sofa beside Mabel. “It’s not your fault,” she soothed, “you couldn’t have known.”

 

For a long time, Mabel just cried into her teacher, a trembling mess of spit and snot and tiny, helpless sobs. Teresa hummed along, rubbing soothing circles into the small of the girl’s back.

 

“I’m sorry,” Mabel finally whimpered, “for causing you trouble.”

 

“Don’t worry, honey.” Terry’s gut twisted. “What are you going to tell your parents, sweetheart? What am I going to tell them?” Panic trembled in her voice.

 

Mabel peered up at Terry with wide, tearful eyes. “I’ll handle it.” She whimpered. “You had nothing to do with it.”

 

Taken aback, Terry gasped softly. “No, Mabel.” She shook, the sounds of those terrible screams echoing in her ears. “This is my mistake. I’m the adult here-- I had everything to do with it.”

 

“You didn’t,” Mabel mumbled. “I knew something was wrong with Dipper, something real bad. He said he had things under control-” she gasped, short and shallow, and stifled more tears. “I felt bad about pressing him but I should’ve. He didn’t have it. He didn’t.” She choked, curling in on herself again and pressing herself to Teresa’s chest.

 

Terry drew her thumb over Mabel’s cheek, flicking her tears away. “Easy now. Shh.”

 

Mabel huffed, gasping for air. The weeping didn't stop.


	16. Rebirth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dipper forgets himself and Mabel has a nightmare. The two aren't unrelated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sO sorry for taking so long with this update!! I've had a lot on my plate lately. I hope this chapter scratched your Sacorum itch enough for now. The next one is in the works! I honestly never expected this to break 15 chapters when first considering this story, but I'm really glad people like it so much. I'm honestly no longer sure how long I want to extend this story, so for now... we continue. Enjoy!

In that moment, he was a being of pure energy with a deal to fulfill. 

 

He was formless, nebulous, a concept that shook the shattered grey sky of the Mindscape, made his fields quake and the spindle-trees shudder, their roots curling into the aether, branches curling inwards. The foundation of his mindscape trembled, the spongy ground rippled beneath the hooves of nightmares as the euphoria of an open transaction tickled their master’s veins.

 

Fix it, she’d said. She’d give an͞y̛t͜h͏i͠ng̨, she said. The demon dribbled, flexing imaginary claws in preparation to claim his prey, gathering fresh energy at his core and constructing his end from the inside out.

 

Blackened bones twisted into existence like sticks of putty, translucent and pulsing with hot gold power. He wrapped slick golden muscle around each bone, identical to that pathetic boy but stronger, better, rippling with demonic magic, a mess of soft wet organs full of boiling acid, tiny fingers coating the inner pocket of black mock-lungs, a cluster of muscle and strands of long tubular flesh to pump liquid gold blood through the demon’s construct. Icy white skin came to cling to strands of fabricated tissue, tendons, grew blackened talons at the tip of each frontal digit, flexing.

 

Finally, the slitted brass eyes rolling forward even as they formed, split xanthous tongue writhing behind razor-white teeth like an ivory beartrap. The last touches slipped into place, cerulean fire licking at freshly fabricated forearms as the demon finally stretched his new body, mouth wide as he cackled and relished in the offer: anything at all.

 

He grinned as his nightmares, his slaves, shied away from his claws, snapping his teeth and crying gleefully out at their fear. The demon swiped his talons through the barrier between his lair and her dreamscape as she slept, ready to reach through her ribs, claim that soft light behind her lungs-

 

Oh.

 

The grass was purple here, swaying, pink and buttercup paper flowers shuddering in a candy-flavored breeze as a gradient pink sky floated above. Trees of absurd colors, tufted like cotton swabs and lions’ tails in hues of indigo and periwinkle above their swirling rosey trunks.

 

And the hunger wasn’t gone, just subdued, but its suppression made room for an ache to grow in the demon’s chest. Despite his best efforts, reaching out with his consciousness into the fresh reservoir of information, pressing just beyond his immediate awareness, there was no cure for the feeling. No relief of the niggling feeling, the worry that something was missing.

 

He still couldn’t quite grasp why.

 

Something was very, very important, but knowledge of it lay just outside his reach.

 

The demon’s forked tongue flicked out of his mouth, tasting the air and smelling cotton candy yarn, sweet berry perfume, a warm aura of something he couldn’t quite identify seeping into his awareness.

 

Brow furrowed and teeth bared in frustration, the demon let his influence spread; bleaching the grass and gnarling the trees, pulling his nightmares over the fence between these dreams and his lair.

 

One of them, sheep-shaped and mild, spoke with a shaking voice. “ **Master? What is wrong… with you?** ” She seemed to flinch as the words left her cervine lips, “ **I sense you are not well…** ”

 

Even the larger, brawnier nightmare at her side daren’t speak, averting his glassy red-eyed gaze with ears splayed flat against his fleece.

 

Dodging the question, the demon extended his awareness, curling his lip as he moved to track the host of this dream. He growled low in his throat, directing his nightmares: “Find the girl.” He didn’t quite understand why his voice wavered and broke despite his attempts to sound commanding. “Bring her to me.”

 

\---

 

Mabel was curled beneath a sky-tall orange tree, its bark speckled cyan and wrapped with flowering vines that smelled of cocoa and sweets. The yarny violet grass tickled her bare legs, squished plush beneath her sock feet and curled between her fingers as she sat with hooded eyes, floating in a state of pleasant half-sleep.

 

A chill ran down her spine; the smooth warm air was suddenly cold and oppressive; Mabel leapt to her feet. She pressed her tiny body against the bark of the tree, shaking as the vibrant color bled from the sky above and the grass below alike.

 

Shivering, Mabel’s gut bucked and dropped with nausea, screaming:  _ this is wrong _ . She indulged its demands, taking quick short strides as she began to run, each time swinging her legs wider and faster beneath her till she was sprinting, the soft grass suddenly pricking between her toes, smooth ground marred by roots and rocks that tripped her footing.

 

The world around was suddenly working against her, and behind her Mabel could now hear the thundering hoofbeats of something huge and terrible, could feel its hot breath on the back of her neck as the beast suddenly leapt forward, shaking the ground. She screamed, high and shrill, and darted to the left, spraying loose pebbles beneath her bare feet as she slid.

 

The thick pale fog rolled ahead, oppressive, choking, but Mabel didn’t slow, instead gasping through her teeth and pushing herself even further. Her legs burned, chest throbbing and throat raw from each harsh breath as she swung around a copse of tufted trees, socked feet pounding against the hard-packed ground.

 

Ahead of her the landscape was familiar, the faerie glen of Gravity Falls flashing behind her eyes, the mumbling brook soaking her socks as Mabel stumbled over the running water. She swerved along the bank, skidding over the mud and feeling hot tears prick at her eyes as her muscles ached and cut-up feet throbbed with every step.

 

The monster behind her bellowed, thunderous footfalls flinging up icy spray from the creek, throwing clods of dirt and mud as the horrible thing gained on the tiny girl.

 

Desperate, Mabel stumbled on four limbs, moving clumsily up the sloping forest floor, stumbling over logs and boulders as she pushed herself to the limit, hoping with all her pounding heart that the tight navigation and difficult terrain through the stand of gnarled pines would slow the brutish monster’s chase. 

 

Its hot breath flattened the ferns, sharp hooves crushing the stems and grinding them to salve in the dirt. The monster bellowed, chittering through razor teeth as Mabel scrambled yet further up, crawling between the boulders that barred the deer-drunk creek from the base of the craggy forest hill, more a mountain than anything.

 

Trembling, Mabel limped calf-deep through the water, crouching and tucking her slim body between two of the wider stones, pebbles cutting her bare legs as she cowered in her hiding place, hoping that lake muck and cool water would throw off the beast’s tracking.

 

The beast was low to the ground and short-bodied, spindly herbivore legs marred by scabs and tumorous growth; extra segments on its sharp black hooves, too many joints there and too few here. Its body was covered in wiry black fleece that glistened in the murky light like oil, too many eyes covering its bovine head and twisted sheep’s skull too full of savage teeth. Its long ears, all four of them, swivelled from side to side, wrinkled nose twitching as the monster sniffed at the air.

 

It snorted, spraying moisture into the air that made Mabel gag from the scent of blood and rot, but flicked its barbed tail and lumbered away to search elsewhere.

 

Tears and snot crusted on Mabel’s face as she stifled sobs, fingers curled against mossy granite as she wiggled free of her hiding place. Gingerly, she jogged up, leaning heavily on the craggy rock as she stumbled along the packed clay path. The ridge wound its way up the mountain in a spiral, hemmed by tall black poplars and pines that grew thin and spindly in the frigid mountain soil. Each tree seemed to lean in over the path, gnarled branches like claws reaching towards her, every knot in the wood and woodpecker-hole a glassy black eye peering at her from the fog.

 

Mabel rounded the bend of the spiral, eyes wide as she saw a cave ahead. Something radiated warmth from inside, a soft amber glow dancing over painted rugged walls. Reluctantly, she ducked into the cavern, arms held close and high against her chest as she took in her surroundings.

 

Crude paintings covered the walls, berry dyes staining marbled granite and slate in the shapes of flowers and animals. Transfixed, Mabel brought her gaze over each symbol; a simple boombox, an ugly brown bear whose wide tawny mouth spilled musical notes, Hellenistic-style Minotaurs dancing round clay-red flames that near licked the cavern’s roof. Massive pawprints, longer than her head was wide, made splotches over the stone, five long-clawed toes shown in a different color every time. 

 

It felt achingly familiar to look at, this mural, drawing a sense of sorrowful nostalgia from Mabel’s gut.

 

Weakly, she pulled her attention away. There were bones littered over the floor of the hollow; roebuck, Shira’s moose, Roosevelt and mule deer skulls all piled neatly by type and size, some antlers wound with braided flower stems, wilted but still beautiful, in their own chilling, uncanny way. 

 

A boombox decorated with flower stickers sat on one rock towards the back of the cave, almost out of the firelight. The plastic casing was scratched and marred, but hot pink duct tape wrapped up the worst of the damage, clearly treated with love, and for a very long time. A little grey cassette sat atop the radio, skewed halfway over the top lid but beneath the carrying handle.

 

Mabel felt tears prick at her eyes as she reached out, grimy fingers ghosting over the tape.

 

\---

 

Dipper felt very far away, as though his life was a movie and he was watching everything happen to someone else. It felt good to feel the icy air in his lungs, the freezing air biting at his skin and the autumn breeze whipping at his hair and chilling his ears; all the sensations felt real and intense, but his body felt like it was on autopilot.

 

He stared for a long time at the tufted trees before him, and noticed that the bark was covered in sequins. There was hardly any surprise when his stomach dropped, and suddenly he was back within himself.

 

The fledgling tossed his head, ridding himself of those last insidious thoughts before spinning to face Lolonja.

 

With a squeak, the nightmare shied away, side-slitted eyes wide with fear and long ears splayed against her fleece. Dipper reached out gingerly, but stopped with a gasp as he noticed his hand-- it was blackened as though burnt, lines of vantablack creeping up and dispersing at about his elbow. What lay below the boy’s mid-forearm was all in hues of oil slick void, iridescent even in the dim grey light. Each finger was tipped in a wickedly ridged talon, tapered into the shape of a wedge with ragged inner edges. They were killing claws.

 

He yelped aloud himself, brass eyes darting to his subordinate. “L-lolonja?” Dipper said. It wasn’t loud but his voice broke all the same, hoarse and ragged. He sounded so small, even to his own ears.

 

“ **Master?** ” The nightmare replied, seeming less afraid and more concerned. “ **Are you back to yourself?** ”

 

Blinking, Dipper let his mouth hang stupidly open before regaining his composure. “I…” He glanced down at his claws again, flexing them experimentally. It felt like… a glove. Some kind of power sheathing his arm, intertwined without being connected. In the dreamscape-- his realm, a little bubble of pride reminded him-- it took only a thought for the oil to melt away, leaving behind a comparatively tiny little human hand.

 

He brought his gaze back to Lolonja, bitterly allowing a close-lipped smile to tug at his lips. “I’m okay now,” Dipper confirmed, shaking despite himself. He felt his ear twitch, cocking his head in the direction of snapping twigs.

 

Groknar lumbered out of the bushes, skittishly skirting Dipper to tuck himself aside his partner. The female nightmare bleated softly, tossing her head at the boy to indicate that all was now well, and the ram rumbled his assent with a terse dip of his head.

 

“ **I FOUND THE GIRL,** ” the ram boomed, sounding pleased with himself. “ **SHE IS AT THE MOUNTAIN, WHERE SHE HIDES FROM ME. I CANNOT SMELL HER, BUT SHE IS IN POSITION FOR TAKING, MASTER.** ”

 

Dipper nodded hesitantly at his charge’s brief report. He thought of the girl. What was her name again?

 

\---

 

Mabel sat with her back to the fire, head pressed against the cave wall and knees against her chest. Something clattered at the mouth of the cave, and her hooded eyes were suddenly wide open and alert.

 

Red eyes gleamed in the firelight, two sets flanking something vaguely human-shaped through the smoke. The curling horns of the monsters crested at hip-level one on each side of the figure. Their hooves clattered on the stone as they skirted the flames, leading the stranger closer.

 

The girl didn’t dare move, instead glaring at the intruders with all the gall she could muster, choking back the fear that tore at her belly.

 

At the same time, the stranger bent down to the larger of the monsters, petting its fleece and cooing something like praise at it before turning to face Mabel. His eyes glittered with cyan tapetum lucidum in the shadows, luminous through the thick black smoke that choked the cave mouth.

 

“Mabel.” He finally said, voice hoarse. It wasn’t a question, just an acknowledgement.

 

Her eyes widened, tears pricking at their corners and heating her cheeks. “Dipper? Is that you?”

 

There was a long, long pause. 

 

“I… think so.”

 

Mabel shook with sobs, pressing herself tighter against the wall. She couldn’t do this. This wasn’t right. This was so, so wrong.

 

“Mabel?” Unease crept into that voice, unmistakably belonging to her brother. “Mabel?”

 

When she didn’t respond, his glowing eyes flitted to the monsters. He mumbled something low and sad-sounding, and with soft grunts of sympathetic agreement the beasts trotted abreast away from the cave.

 

“Mabel?” His voice broke sharply on the second syllable, the throaty wetness of a sob cutting into his diction. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for us to scare you-- I didn’t think-- I--”

 

“Stop. Just stop it.”

 

He obeyed, shutting his mouth. Instead, Dipper padded around the fire, movements slow and deliberate. Despite his best efforts, he couldn’t shake the predatory edge to his stride; low and stalking, the rapid darting of his eyes and tipping of his head as he involuntarily analysed his target. 

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

Dipper gasped softly at Mabel’s half-sobbed apology. She bunched her legs beneath herself and sprang, throwing her arms around her brother’s neck to better howl into his shoulder.

 

“I’m so sorry, Dipper! I’m so sorry! I knew something would happen, I knew but I didn’t say anything to stop it and- and-” she paused to take a gasping breath, “I thought you were  _ dead _ , Dipper! I don’t wanna lose you.” She trailed off, hyperventilating into the cotton of Dipper’s shirt.

 

He rubbed soothing circles into her back, shushing her softly and kissing her hair until her breathing evened out. The crying didn’t stop, though.

 

“You have nothing to apologize for,” he said firmly, swallowing the gasp that clawed at his throat as he attempted to stifle his tears. “I… I lost it, Mabel. I didn’t trust you enough to let you help-- that’s no one’s fault but mine.” Feeling suddenly weak, he sunk against the cave wall. “I fucked up, Mabel. I’m sorry.”

 

She slid down beside him, head on his shoulder as they sobbed in tandem.


	17. Pretty-Face Plane

The dream stretched until dawn. Mabel awoke to her brother’s icy arm draped over her back. He was splayed beside her, face-down on the bed and breathing steadily. His eyes were wide open.

 

“Hi.” Dipper said, voice low and hoarse. He sat up slowly, fingers curled awkwardly against the sheets.

 

Mabel nodded, not trusting her voice. He looked absolutely wretched, brass eyes ringed by dark circles and tear tracks.

 

He swung his legs easily over the bedside, avoiding her gaze. “Sorry,” he hissed through clenched teeth, cheeks hot with shame. “About what I did. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

 

“I know,” Mabel squeaked. She cleared her throat awkwardly and tried not to focus on the edge to Dipper’s movements.

 

She stood up and brushed past him, shivering as the impression of ice water trickled down her arm. Even with her back  turned, she couldn’t evade the prickling sensation of his snake eyes boring into her. It made her feel naked, exposed.

 

Dipper didn’t seem to notice her unease, pushing off from the bed to bob in midair beside her. “Don’t go,” he said. His tone was soft and innocuous, but the command was clear. “We need to talk.”

 

Rendered mute, Mabel sighed and turned to face him. “What do you need?” Dread crept up her spine as her brother bit his lip.

 

“Well,” he spoke hesitantly, wringing his hands against his chest. “You kind of owe me-” He cut himself off, gesturing vaguely. “In Neri’s room, when you said you’d, uh,” he licked his lips anxiously, mouth stretched in a sheepish grin. “Give me  _ anything. _ ”

 

Mabel’s heart dropped like a stone. Her breath hitched in her chest. That conman glint in his eye, too big a smile as he leaned in too close. She yelped and it caught in her throat as she stumbled back, flinging a book from the nightstand that phased right through him and tumbled ungracefully to the floor against the far wall.

 

Dipper blinked rapidly, tipping his head back to glance at the book before turning his attention back to her. He seemed to visibly wilt, floating lower in the air. He reached up to press his fingers against his eyelids, shaking his head as though to rid himself of flies.

 

“Right.” He shook, hands trembling as he extended an open palm to his sister. “If this goes wrong, promise me you’ll… you’ll.” He bit his lip until he drew blood and it dribbled down his chin. He didn’t seem to notice or care. “Don’t let me hurt you.” He finally spat, breathless.

 

Mabel slapped his hand as quickly as she could to keep him from changing his mind, shivering as blue flame licked its way up their arms. Slowly, she withdrew, the demonic fire tingling pleasantly along her skin.

 

Dipper looked dead on his feet, hands shaking violently with the effort of self-control, grey in the face and impossibly small, curled in on himself.

 

“Thanks,” she said. Her brother nodded wordlessly, looking ill.

 

“We need to get Great Uncle Ford,” he growled. His voice broke on the second word, dwindling to a gravelly whisper. “He can fix this. He can fix me.”

 

The frantic desperation in his voice made Mabel’s heart ache. “I know,” she breathed, reaching out to rub soothing circles on Dipper’s back. “They should be home this week. Day after tomorrow I think.”

 

Dipper nodded feebly, eyes hooded with shame. His lower lip trembled as he stifled a whimper. “I’m scared, Mabel.”

 

Her breath hitched in her throat. “Oh, Dip-dop. It’s gonna be okay.” She pressed her warm fingers to his shoulder, giving a reassuring squeeze. “We’re staying home today.”

 

Mabel’s brother blinked owlishly back at her, brass eyes wide. “What about school? Miss Terry will be worried.”

 

She chewed her lip. “I know. That’s why we’re staying.” She leaned over to peek at her phone’s dim display. It cast her face in stark, watery light in the darkness of their room. With a nod of satisfaction, Mabel turned back to Dipper. “Yeah. It’s early enough-- she should still be sleeping. We need to go into her dream and let her know she’s alright.”

 

Dipper blanched, and Mabel resisted the urge to cringe at the sight of his freshly-tapered ears’ almost imperceptible drooping. It would have been endearing if it weren’t for the gravity of the situation.

 

“I don’t know,” he cautioned. He opened his mouth to say more, but Mabel cut him off.

 

“And I don’t care,” she snapped. “We have to try.”

 

They lapsed into brittle silence. Dipper scrutinized her with those uncanny brass eyes, tongue flicking out to wet his lips every so often, as though he were readying himself to speak. The knot of emotion smoldered in Mabel’s chest. She felt so lost, so isolated. There was no imagining how Dipper felt, but it didn’t stop the ice in her gut from rolling in selfish desperation.

 

It was only after a long time of staring that Dipper spoke. “Fine,” he conceded bitterly. Mabel felt less like a piece of meat under his gaze, but she couldn’t shake the uncanny feeling of being picked apart by something much bigger than herself.

 

“Good.”

 

“I don’t know if I’ll be able to do it,” Dipper said, teeth glinting as he grimaced. His thinly veiled uncertainty made Mabel’s skin prickle uncomfortably, but she nodded anyway.

 

“Lie down,” he commanded, floating over her bedside. He was using his scientist voice, clear and clipped as his mind turned elsewhere. She had heard him use it a thousand times before, but today it was frigid and clinical. A defense mechanism.

 

Mabel obeyed with minimal pause, wriggling under her down comforter and closing her eyes. She stifled the urge to flinch as her brother’s cold hand came to press on her forehead. The clammy skin was like ice. She could hear him mumble nervously, take a deep breath-

 

The grass was startlingly innocuous poking through her socks. The air was warm and damp like a summer day and she could feel the equally typical sun beating down on the top of her head.

 

As her vision cleared Mabel saw something like an idealized version of the schoolyard. It reminded her of Miss Terry’s front yard-- overly saturated with surreal colors that bled into one another like a watercolor painting, bleeding her anxieties away. Flowers of exotic, absurd patterns and shapes blanketed the thick supple grass that rippled in the soft breeze. A red brick building that reminded Mabel of old-timey school houses stood tall and proud just aside the flower field, gilded with brilliant morning glory vines that sang in the wind.

 

Dipper was beside her, hovering placidly just above her shoulder-level. He seemed pleased with himself, tipping his head up into the warm breeze.

 

“Terry has a nice Dreamscape,” he said mildly, as though he was pleasantly surprised by his new environment. His tongue flicked from his mouth as he cocked his head up, tasting the air. “You feel that?”

 

Mabel sniffed delicately, knowing she likely couldn’t. The faint scent of petrichor hung pleasantly in the humid air, punctuated by the earthy-sweet stink of crushed grass and dead leaves in the sun.

 

“Feel what?” she asked, stepping easily forward through the grass. Mabel spun, twirling her nightgown around her before dropping to a squatting sort of crouch. She plucked up a pair of fat pink blossoms with yellow-speckled undersides like a child pulling dandelions.

 

“Neri. She’s dreaming.”

 

Pursing her lips, Mabel stood with flowers in hand. “I’d imagine so. What about?”

 

Dipper cracked a half-smile. She noticed that he was careful to keep his lips close, but she still caught the flash of an elongated eyetooth in the sunlight. “Not about us. I mean deep dreamin’, before we got here.”

 

He lifted his head again, tipping his body up to recover from his lazily slouched position. Mabel laughed a little at the sight: his eyes clear and alert, mouth parted stupidly and tapered ears pricked ever so slightly out from his head, he looked like a watchful kitten.

 

“Whatcha doin’?” Mabel asked teasingly. Dipper’s cheeks darkened without really reddening. 

 

“Nothing,” he defended lamely, crossing his arms. Despite his apparent hurt, a mischievous undertone ran strong in his voice. “Neri’s close by, I think. We can catch her before she wakes up.”

 

At that Dipper squared his tiny, narrow shoulders in what Mabel figured was an attempt at being serious. He hovered low over the long grass, spinning in the air every now and then to peer back at his sister and urge her to hurry up.

 

Suppressing a giggle, Mabel followed without protest. Dipper took spiralling loops through the air with arms outstretched as he lead, eyes loosely closed and a blissful grin tugging at his lips. He hadn’t looked so happy in a long time.

 

The thought made discomfort writhe in her belly. He hadn’t been very happy before. It wasn’t that he was horrendously discontent, but the summer in Gravity Falls had changed him. He was nervous, always tasting the air with wide eyes darting. He rarely laughed or smiled so unguardedly. Something like pity bloomed in Mabel’s chest.

 

She hated to consider the thought, that he felt too unsafe to laugh.

 

Mabel felt afraid. It was selfish because she knew she was more afraid  _ of _ her brother than for him, despite what she might tell herself. She saw the mania in his gaze, the desperation in his voice. What Bill had done shook him to the core, and the cracks only spread further outward.

 

Less greedily, she couldn’t bear the thought of brilliant, altruistic Dipper Pines doing something stupid while he was like this. The tremors that shook his hands as he denied an open deal, how his face turned ashen and slick with sweat-- they scared her more than the fact that the deal had been made in the first place. Her brother was kind and strong despite his outward meekness, and the idea that he was suddenly so fragile in the face of his own desires frightened Mabel.

 

As she thought with pollen settling on her forearms and leaves beneath her feet, the old-timey showtune rolling from Dipper’s throat sounded so familiar-- it made her skin crawl-- Mabel realized. Nothing would ever go back to normal.

 

They were damaged goods. Always and forever. Helpless rage fevered beneath her skin now. There was nothing she could do to make things better, and that foreign feeling made Mabel’s chest tighten with horror, grief for what might have been.

 

Mercifully, Dipper broke the silence. “There,” he said lowly, pointing ahead. There was a somber note to his voice. Mabel couldn’t tell if he had sensed her brooding thoughts or had simply put up walls to face the woman who’d killed him only hours before.

 

Idly, she considered that it was likely to be both.

 

Terry was having a nightmare. She was running without seeming to get anywhere as a mass of twisted flesh-golems closed in on her from the cheery woods beyond the school.

 

Glancing at her brother, Mabel advanced. Dipper slid up beside her, surging ahead with arms outstretched. He grabbed one misshapen neck and throttled it as he flew by, throwing the monster easily against the ground. It dissolved into a pile of dusty bones.

 

The remaining monsters gurgled and choked their outrage. One with too many legs shot unnaturally fast towards Mabel, who rolled awkwardly to the side to dodge the nightmare. She took advantage of Dreamscape and kitten boxing gloves materialized with a flash on her hands.

 

Calling on her martial arts experience from the Falls, Mabel threw a swift left hook that caught one blubbering deformity hard in the chin. It flew back into one of its peers, and together they struggled briefly before disintegrating.

 

The final beast roared at Terry and advanced. Dipper flew quickly over it, shoving the woman behind him. Howling, the monster charged. He spun to face his opponent, brass eyes flashing, and flung a burst of nacreous blue fire from his palm. It struck the monster’s swollen face and quickly consumed it.

 

With that Dipper sunk to his knees, looking drained. His face, pale and slick with sweat, was scrunched into an expression of pain. He clutched his stomach defensively, and Mabel feared he’d been hurt.

 

He twisted to the side and emptied his belly over the grass.

 

Mabel, still breathing hard with effort, moved over to her brother, patting him firmly on the back before turning to face Terry, who stood awestruck.

 

“What- Mabel? What’re you doing here?”

 

Dipper, wiping milky drool and bile from his chin, turned around. His half-lidded eyes were dull despite the teasing in his voice. “What’m I, chopped liver?” He coughed, a sound that crawled wetly up from his chest like pneumonia, and rubbed his own arm defensively.

 

“You…” Terry looked stricken, round face ashen with horror. “You’re alive?”

 

He only shrugged.

 

Mabel cut in with a sharp glance at her uncooperative brother. “Don’t mind him,” she dismissed quickly, hands-- now kitten-free --held up in a universal gesture of placation. “He didn’t want to do this at first. I just wanted to make sure you were OK.”

 

Nodding meekly, the older woman shifted uncomfortably as Dipper turned all the way around to hover at his sister’s shoulder-level. She didn’t miss his tapered ears or luminous yellow eyes.

 

“I’m glad  _ you’re _ okay,” Terry mumbled, fixing her gaze somewhere behind Dipper to avoid looking him in the eyes. “I’m sorry. I was only trying to help.”

 

He curled his lip in distaste, baring rows of beartrap-teeth. “And you did a fantastic job, Neri. I feel  _ killer. _ ”

 

Mabel, alarmingly unbothered, reached up to cuff her brother over the back of the head. “Don’t be like that!” She chastised. The demon that looked like Dipper Pines seemed sheepish, rubbing the back of his head. “You know it’s just as much my fault as hers.”

 

He grumbled something like “I know” and lowered his head. “Whatever,” he huffed, crossing his arms, and more softly, “sorry.”

 

“Sorry,” Terry echoed in agreement. She brought her gaze shakily up to meet the boy-demon’s hard brass glare. “So… you’re… cursed?”

 

_ No, _ she knew, fear coiling in her gut. It felt better to just ask, anyway.

 

Dipper seemed to wilt. “Somethin’ like that,” he muttered. His gaze turned distant as he curled in on himself.

 

“Yeah,” Mabel added softly, latching her soft fingers around her brother’s spindly ones. “We’re working on it.”   
  


At her teacher’s questioning look, the teen specified. “Our uncles. Great-uncles, actually. They were into all this spooky stuff before the…” She trailed off, hazel eyes dimming as she cast them towards the ground. “The thing. That happened.” She rolled her eyes and sighed good-naturedly. “We’ll be in good hands with them,” Mabel finally assured. “Thank you for trying to help.” 

 

Dipper nodded wordlessly. He looked impossibly tired and small. It was too easy to forget how young they both were.

 

Terry sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Thanks for saving me, by the way.”

 

Mabel chirped with a flamboyant bow: “No problem!”

 

“Anytime,” Dipper hummed. He was visibly anxious, halfway to bristling as his upper lip twitched and he wringed his hands nervously. “Just-” The demon turned his gaze briefly to his human counterpart. “Don’t worry too much about us, okay.” 

 

She felt the tense muscles holding her furrowed brow relax somewhat. “Of course, Dipper.”

 

He rubbed his arm self consciously, floating a little lower towards the grass before suddenly straightening. He pulled his lips into a deliberate frown. “Yeah, well,” Dipper snapped defensively. The boy edged forward with arms crossed over his chest. “It’s only ‘cause you don’t know what you’re doing.” His brass eyes flashed. “Because I don’t want you getting in the way.”

 

Mabel seemed vaguely scandalized, mouthing something undoubtedly chastising to her brother, but it was Teresa Neri’s job to know teenagers. Dipper’s mutinous scowling and thinly veiled threats were only a defense mechanism, she knew. He was a good kid. He didn’t want anyone else to be hurt. 

 

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Terry said without missing a beat. The Pines family were kind people, and while she hadn’t known them for long she couldn’t help but feel proud of them. Warmth bloomed in her chest, and for good measure she added: “my prickly friend.”

 

He smiled a little at that. That smile bared a bone-white bear-trap.

 


End file.
